Vasil Byka?: His Life and Works 9780773572928

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Vasil Bykau

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Vasil Bykau

His Life and Works

Zina J. Gimpelevich

M c G I L L - Q U E E N ' S U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S Montreal & Kingston | London | Ithaca

© McGill-Queen's University Press 2005 ISBN 0-7735-2900-4 Legal deposit third quarter 2005 Bibliotheque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free) This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Programme, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen's University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Gimpelevich, Zina J., 1949Vasil Bykau : his life and works / Zina J. Gimpelevich. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7735-2900-4 1. Bykau, Vasil, 1924-2003—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Bykau, Vasil, 1924-2003. 3. Authors, Belarusan—20th century—Biography. 4. Dissenters—Belarus—Biography. 5. Belarus—Biography. I. Title. PG2835.2.B9Z66 2005

891.7'9933

C2005-901151-3

This book was designed and typeset by studio oneonone in Sabon 10.5/13.5 and Franklin Gothic

Contents

Preface I vii Acknowledgments

I ix

Introduction: The Generation That Is Almost No More

I 3

ONE

Childhood: Vasilok, the Blue Cornflower I 11

TWO

Youth, Ukraine, the War, and Post-War Military Service I 33

THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT

Lieutenant Bykau's Prose I 47 Partisan Novels: Victims or Victors? I 85 On Both Sides of the Front Lines: Signs of Misfortune

I 105

Scars of War: Being Hunted Down I 122 On Oppression in War and Peace: Poor Folks I 140 There Is No Prophet in Your Fatherland: Vasil Bykau's Crossroads and the Politics of Freedom I 172 Epilogue: Exile and a Long Way Home I 205 Instead of Necrology I 209 Appendix: A Note on Belarusan Pronunciation and Transliterations I 211 Notes I 215 Bibliographies Index I 251

I 235

Bykau with his mother, Hanna Bykava, 1979. Photograph by A. Kaliada

Preface

The Belarusan writer Vasil Bykau, while little known in the the West, is a man of towering influence in twentieth-century Slavic literature. His popularity and stature are undisputed, both for the quality of his writing and for the merciless way in which he gazed at the totalitarian regimes that gripped Belarus in his lifetime. In 1993 I turned to Bykau's work to more fully understand the history of my country of birth and the influence his writing has had on three generations of Belarusans: my parents', my own, and that of our children. Vasil Bykau remains, for all of us, a remarkable representative of Belarusan literature and a symbol of humanity and moral stature. It was my good fortune to get to know and interview Bykau in the last years of his life. These were mostly years in exile, but in terms of his writing they were productive and the flame of his conscience, to paraphrase Pasternak, was undiminished. I regret that Vasil Bykaii did not live to see his first critical biography in English. My hope is that this book will be only the first of many to do justice to this outstanding man. Vasil Bykaii managed to stop my heart with the death of every infantryman killed on the battlefields of World War Two; these infantrymen relived their lives in the pages of his volumes; moreover, he gave many of them a decent burial. Here too, there is a personal motivation: I consider his work to be a tribute to my own father, Captain Jakau Himpielevic (Gimpelevich).1 While many of his generation lie in a mass grave, my father, like Vasil Bykau, does not. Fortunately for my sister and me (both born after the war), he made it all the way from Western Belarus to Berlin with the Soviet military forces. Fourteen years after the victory, as a result of war wounds, my father was buried in my home city of Miensk. He died at the age of fifty-one, when I was ten. Jakau Himpielevic, who before the war had been known in his family for his good health, never enjoyed a robust day after the war. Like many others who went through the ordeal, he silently bore his pain. He was a kind person. All the children on our

viii Preface

street knew when it was his payday: it was the day he would bring candies home and ask us to share them with our friends. My father never spoke of the war with my sister and me. There was one person, however, with whom he must have spoken: Kolia, my father's orderly during the war, who came to see him from time to time. He, too, played a special role in my early childhood. Kolia was much younger than my father; he was probably in his late twenties or early thirties when I first took notice of his occasional visits. At approximately the same time, I started to demand a grandparent from my parents, in the way a child might ask for a sibling. Some of my friends had four grandparents; some had one; I had none. One day my father got tired of my fantasies and "appointed" his orderly Kolia to be my grandfather. I still remember the happiness and wholeness that I felt at every single arrival of my "grandfather." He was a driver at a distant collective farm, and he would come in his worn-out old truck, bringing with him a heavy and unusual barn smell. That smell made my mother turn away, but I liked it. It seemed that "grandfather" took his duties seriously; he always came with presents, a huge piece of salo (homemade lard) and, of course, candies. These candies, stuck together and barely edible, carried a special significance to me: they were proof to my friends of the existence and legitimacy of my "grandfather." Some years later I asked my mother about "grandfather" Kolia. I remembered that at first she had hardly been able to tolerate my father's relationship with a lower-class man, in particular because every visit would end in a drinking session. Over time, however, my mother's attitude changed. She told me that Kolia and father were so-called "blood brothers." "Oh," I said, "he is my uncle, then!" I had uncles already, and in my opinion they were not as valuable as a grandparent. "No, darling," she said wistfully. "At different times your father and Kolia carried each other wounded from the battlefield. They saved each other's lives in the war. It happened often back then, and people like that are called blood brothers." I would never have known what my father and Kolia said about the war when they closed the doors of the storehouse behind them, taking along vodka and appetizers, if not for Bykau. I doubt that these two kindest of men, in particular the more modestly educated Kolia, were able to express their feelings fully, but Bykau could - he gave them all a voice. Unable to express themselves, Vasil Bykau made it his life's work to tell their stories.

Acknowledgments

There are many people to whom I am indebted for their help in the preparation of this book. First and foremost, my gratitude goes to the subject of the manuscript, the late Vasil Bykau. I am thankful for every second of the many precious hours of telephone conversations and interviews that he granted me. The manuscript has benefited immensely from his memory, his encyclopedic knowledge of the Soviet era, and his warm personality. Bykau's patience, open-mindedness, erudition, and humour were the greatest support in my endeavour. Once, when I came to him with a sophisticated new tape recorder that turned out to be more than I could handle, he smiled and said, "Our people say that it doesn't pay to wear new shoes on a long trip." It is hard to find words to express my thanks and respect to Bykau's widow, Iryna, who was his love, muse, critic, friend, and companion. I can never repay this generous soul for her time, and for the seventy photographs and four of Bykau's drawings that she gave me without taking anything in return. I will never forget our many walks in Frankfurt, when even silence had meaning. I feel privileged to pay tribute to Iryna Bykaii, a talented woman who remains devoted to her husband's life and work. My special thanks go to the following Belarusans: Ryhor Baradulin, Belarusan scholar, poet, and translator, who was Bykau's friend and admirer; academician Adam Maldzis, who generously led me to several Belarusan archives; Karlas Scherman, Belarusan poet, Bykau's friend and translator into Spanish; Uladzimir Arlou, Belarusan scholar and writer who shares and promotes Bykau's values; and Siarhei Zakonnikau, Belarusan poet and editor of Polymia. All of these people, and a great many more who opened their hearts the moment they heard Bykau's name, rendered their assistance during this project. Among Belarusans abroad, I would like to note the Canadian Belarusan Survilla family: the late Janka Survilla; his wife, stateswoman Joanna Survilla, who is my special friend; and their daughter, Maria Paula Survilla. This family has always

x Acknowledgments

inspired me with their love for Belarus. My warm acknowledgments for their scholarly and public activities go to the American Belarusans Jan Zaprudnik, Vitaut Kipel, and the late Zora Kipel. I have made every effort to identify, obtain permission, and credit copyright holders of illustrations in this book. Notice of any errors or omissions in this regard will be gratefully received and correction made in any subsequent editions. I thank the editors and publishers of Canadian Slavonic Papers (O. Ilnytzkyj), Zapisy (T. Bird and V. Kipel), and a recently published festschrift from Germany, Cultural Link: KanadaDeutschland, edited by D. John and B. Henn-Memmesheimer, for their generous permissions to cite and excerpt from my articles and interviews that appeared in their publications. I am grateful for their collegiality and personal kindness. Among many others I am grateful to numerous Canadians, friends and members of the Canadian Relief Fund for Children of Chernobyl in Belarus. This fund, which, together with J. Survilla and P. Smith, I had the honour of establishing in 1989, helped enormously in my understanding and genuine appreciation of my fellow Canadians. It taught me to value their generosity and love for Belarusan children, the victims of Chernobyl whom we have been bringing to Canada for visits since 1990. Canadians' hunger for knowledge about Belarus and its culture have served as illumination, revelation, and inspiration for my work ever since. Many Slavic scholars have my sincere admiration for their valuable works about Vasil Bykau. In particular, I would like to show my respect to the prominent Russian literary critics Lazar' Lazarev and Igor' Dedkov, and to Arnold McMillin, the well-known Slavic scholar from Britain. Lazarev, the editor-in-chief of the leading Russian academic journal, Voprosy literatury (Literary issues), and a military veteran who lost his hand in World War Two, is personally reserved, even shy. Giving me his study of Vasil Bykau, he said modestly: "People should know about Vasil; maybe this book could be of some help." Igor' Dedkov, a modern and energetic critic, has proposed a number of new approaches for analyzing Bykaii's works. Although I am unwilling to travel Dedkov's path, his insightful study was constant food for thought. There are many reasons why I quote Arnold McMillin so often in the manuscript: among the three Slavic scholars named, Professor McMillin is the only one who is fluent in Belarusan. I have always known how lucky I am to be a teacher at the University of Waterloo. The faculty and staff of the Department of Germanic and Slavic Studies, ever collegial, have supported me in many ways. Paul Guild, vice-president, University Research, and Robert Kerton, dean of

xi Acknowledgments

Arts, generously support my research. I am grateful for their kindness. Special thanks go to Paul Malone, who became a Bykau connoisseur through reading and editing the first copy of the manuscript. I am grateful to Ireneusz Szarycz for his advice on the bibliography. A number of students developed a taste for Belarusan studies, and they have my heart and admiration: C. Barbara Kwiecien should be noted for her interest, help, and enthusiasm. Our librarian, Helena Calogeridis, has worked magic in unearthing material that was extremely helpful in my work. The staffs of various libraries and archives in Belarus, Russia, the us, and Canada have given me their full support on many occasions. The University of Waterloo has supported this project with seed money from the uw/ SSHRC Small Grants Program. This money was spent with gratitude on many trips abroad to meet with Bykau, and to disseminate my findings at international conferences. I should like to express my thanks to the editors of Canadian Slavonic Papers and Zapisy, in whose pages I first tried out some of the ideas used later in the manuscript. My very special gratitude goes to my dear friend and editor, Carroll Klein, who worked with me throughout this project. Her patience and highly professional work in "translating" my English into a comprehensible standard evokes much more admiration and respect than I can possibly express. I am indebted to the anonymous readers who gracefully and with unanimous enthusiasm recommended this work for publication. As critics, we often feel obliged to disagree, but it is always heartening to have colleagues with the same values and esthetic ideals. McGill-Queen's University Press was my first choice as a publisher, and it turned out to be a far better experience than I could have imagined. Aurèle Parisien (acquisition editor), Joan McGilvray (coordinating editor), and members of staff have blessed me with their professionalism and congeniality. To my immediate family, my sister, Estella, and her husband, Leon, I wish to convey my thanks for their unconditional love and support. For Leo, Lisa, and Lana, I have many words of thanks. Leo, who chairs the Civil Engineering Department at the University of Waterloo, often takes my side in my eternal misunderstandings with computers; Lisa is an excellent critic who occasionally helps with editing, and Lana is always an enriching presence in my life.

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Vasil Bykau

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Introduction

The Generation That Is Almost No More

Bykau has not merely written about the demands of conscience. He has practised that difficult craft... He is that rare twentiethcentury being - a person possessed of uncompromising belief in moral absolutes. Thomas Bird, "Introductory Word," Zapisy

Many fine writers represent contemporary Belarusan literature, but the novelist, essayist, short story writer, and critic Vasil Uladzimiravic Bykau (192,4-2,003) is undoubtedly the best-known Belarusan author worldwide. In his writings about wartime and peacetime, Bykau found original ways of looking at the lives and deaths of his contemporaries with a hard-earned sensibility; the unique configuration of each human life, apparently insignificant in time and space, he brought home to his readers. These readers, educated on exceptional literature long before the Soviets, hungered for truly good literature in troubled times. This is what Vasil Bykau's literary career delivered for almost half a century: the truth about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. The subject of Vasil Bykau and his role in Belarusan and Russian literatures (in translation from Belarusan) is difficult to circumscribe. My objective is to include in one volume a biography of Bykau and a comprehensive analysis of the changes in genre and literary approach that have occurred in Bykau's body of work. I will examine Bykau's literary works from his early writings to his last, incorporating analyses of Bykau's novels, novellas, and short-short stories and positioning the genres he preferred at different periods in his literary career. Although Bykau was one of the most discreet people I ever met, his biography, as it emerges mainly from our interviews, is also helpful in understanding his literary views, his choice of subject matter, and his literary directions.

4 Vasil Bykau

Despite an extensive body of literary criticism on Vasil Bykau in many languages, comparatively little has been written in English. The small number of English-language papers and articles by N. Afanas'ev, T. Bird, D. Brown, M. Friedberg, A. McMillin, M. Mozur, K. Steinberg, N. Shneidman, M. Slonim, and a few other scholars does not fully illuminate the richness of Bykau's writing. A chapter in Arnold McMillin's 1999 book on Belarusan literature is a welcome addition, given the enormous lacuna between the quality of Bykau's literary works and the availability of literary criticism on his writing in English. To the best of my knowledge, of all the scholars who write about Bykau, only Bird and McMillin do not rely on Russian translations of the writer's literary works. Bird's feelings about the generally weak translations of Bykau's writings are shared by many critics: "Subtle in technique and psychological sensitivity, he has not been consistently well served by translators who have frequently homogenized his writing, by removing specifically Belarusan elements and softening the harshness of his realism."1 The first two chapters of this study are predominantly biographical; in chapters three through seven, I discuss the six-volume edition of Bykau's works, and in chapter eight I investigate the writer's final literary productions, wherein Bykau continued his war against human injustice using the allegorical language of the parable. Throughout, I have included excerpts from the interviews Bykau granted me in the last years of his life. I intend to establish Vasil Bykau's place in Western literary criticism, in the hope that the results will throw light on how this writer challenged convention and conscientiously strove for freedom of thought and expression. A 1974 photograph of Bykau and Alexander Solzhenitsyn portrays an interesting similarity in their facial expressions: a combination of curiosity and stubbornness.2 While Vasil Bykau means as much to Belarusans as Solzhenitsyn does to the Russians - or Vaclav Havel to the Czechs - he is not as widely known in the West. The reason for this is obvious: everyone has heard of the former Soviet Union and Czechoslovakia, but Belarus was all but unknown to the world until very recently. As well, Solzhenitsyn and Havel were former dissidents whose dreams came true when their respective nations freely took the path to democracy, while Bykau's nation did not. Bykau is also a special type of dissident; although he never entered into a major battle with Soviet officialdom, his unwillingness - if not open refusal - to submit to any imposed opinions was indisputable. Vasil Bykau vehemently opposed the regime of Alaksandar Lukasenka; he led a moral and intellectual crusade against Lukasenka's totalitarian

5 Introduction

aspirations, and for Belarusan democracy. By promising democracy to the Belarusans, Lukasenka became the first elected Belarusan president. In later elections, however, he used Stalin's formula: it doesn't matter how people vote; what matters is how you count the votes. In his personal politics, Bykauwas always immensely respectful of any nationality living in or outside Belarus; individuals, he believed, had to be free to make their own choices. Bykau, unsurprisingly, insisted on his own right to be a Belarusan, and to practise his native culture. Bykaii's early works, from 1947 to 1958, are the product of his formative writing years. We must keep in mind that Bykau, having spent years in the military, was a late literary bloomer: he was first demobilized in 1947, only to be drafted again in 1949. His final freedom from the army came in 195 5, when his long-awaited release and his new rank as a major in the reserves were granted by the military. Bykau was one of the earliest Soviet writers to show the true horrors of war. From his very first battlefield short stories, he echoed Tolstoy's belief that there is no glory in war. This contradicted the official Soviet position, which was, above all, a glorification of the invincible Soviet Army. Like most writers of his generation who served in World War Two, Bykau first used themes and plots related to the post-war period rather than the war; these themes were expressed in satirical articles, feuilletons, short stories, and other brief narratives with elements of satire; only a few of his pieces had plots related to the war years. Two of these war stories were published in May and June of 1949 by the newspaper Hrodnenskaja prauda (Hrodna's truth). V. Buran, in his critical monograph Vasil Bykau, attempts to show that these stories evidenced marked traits of the "typical later Bykau." Buran even describes pronounced "Tolstoyan" features in Bykau's early stories. These remarks should be viewed skeptically. In fact, the first stories did not differ much from the typically weak Soviet writing of the time. Bykaii himself considered them "insignificant attempts to write" and never published them again. The period from the end of the 19505 through the middle of the 19608 should be regarded as Bykau's apprenticeship, during which time he continued to hone his style. Some of his stories from this period are set in peacetime; some continue to explore satirical genres; but others, like "Niezahojnaja rana" (The wound that wouldn't heal, 1957), thematically connect a peacetime setting to wartime events. Although Bykauwas associated with the dominant literary movement known as Socialist Realism, there was something that separated him from most writers and gave him relative freedom of expression. In the words of Arnold McMillin: "as further evidence of Bykau's moral fortitude, in Soviet

6 Vasil Bykau

times, of all the prominent Belarusan writers, he was the only one never to join the party."3 Although Vasil Bykau's writing is the most vivid example of presentday literary culture in Belarus, under the Soviets he was often falsely perceived as a Russian writer and, indeed, a privileged one. There are several reasons for this: in the Soviet era, the literary work of a national writer would often appear first in Russian translation; the circle of readership was much wider in Russian; and Bykau's fairly secure past under the Soviets was comparable to the privileged position of famous Soviet scholars whose names were also frequently used by the regime for propaganda purposes. Bykaii, who for a long time wrote mainly about an experience of war that enabled him to delineate the psychology of the average person under extreme circumstances, was quite useful to a Soviet propaganda machine that, in its twisted way, used the same war for its own ends. At the very end of the 19505 and into the 19605, Vasil Bykau's individuality began to emerge with such forceful creativity that very soon he was seen as one of the most prominent of the post-war writers. Many Russian authors - Victor Afanas'ev, Grigorii Baklanov, Jurii Bondarev, Boris Vasil'ev, Daniil Granin, and others - came to literature as Bykaii did, approximately ten years after World War Two but thematically straight from the front lines. As Bykau's early biographer, Lazar' Lazarev, has noted, the phenomenon of writing about a war long after it has ended is common in world literature. Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, Richard Aldington's The Death of a Hero, and Erich Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front all appeared in 192,9, eleven years after World War One. For almost twenty years into their writing careers, Bykaii and this group of Russian war writers displayed a kind of professional unanimity. While this unanimity was conditional on each writer's individual perceptions and style of expression, it had a fundamental base: similar ages and a common military experience. These factors differentiated them from the older generation of capable writers such as Aleksander Bek, Emmanuel Kazakevich, and Victor Nekrasov, who were also using military themes. The general attitude toward war of these writers of battle stories was never identical to the official party line. However, most of the other writers moved on to different themes over time, while Vasil Bykau's literary works continued to pay tribute to those who had lost their lives in such an untimely, and often senseless, fashion. From 1960 to 1985 Bykaii experienced a period of growth and progress in his writing. Starting in 1960, when Zurauliny kryk (The cry of

7 Introduction

the crane) reached his readership, he published one significant piece after another, including Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad, 1964), Prakliataja vysynia (The accursed hill, 1968), Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn, 1973), and Paisci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return, 1978). The content of these works justifies McMillin's statement that "even in the late i95o's it was plain that the experience of war was to predominate in Bykau's writing."4 I intend to argue that Bykau's "return" to war - or the fact that he never left the war, as Slavic literary critics such as D. Bugaev, I. Dedkov, L. Lazarev, and A. Shagalov agree came out of the writer's inner fears and his almost mystical belief that by writing about war he was defending peace. This notion remained apparent in Bykau's prose until the major political changes that culminated in perestroika (reconstruction). In the years between 1986 and 1994 Bykau was transformed into a "public" personality, one who was occupied with social, national, and economic affairs in Belarus. Even though he promptly involved himself in everyday public affairs, the military theme and its moral implications continued to play an important role in his literary works. Perestroika was the call that first awakened Bykauto public life. The Chernobyl catastrophe (2,6 April 1986) also played a major role in his transformation: the nuclear plant is only five kilometres away from the closest Belarusan village, and more than half of arable Belarusan land was soon contaminated. Chernobyl evoked passions unusual for Belarusans, who are generally known for their docile, if not submissive, character. The perestroika and post-Chernobyl years were accompanied by glasnost' (openness), which had less influence in Belarus than in Russia or Ukraine. Bykau became one of the leading members of the Belarusan intelligentsia who tried to cultivate a greater sense of national awareness in Belarusans. His ardent participation in public life developed, in turn, other aspects of his literary activity: journalism and public speaking. Two volumes, Na kryzach (On the crosses, 1992,) and in particular Kryzovy sliax (The crossroad, 1999), were written in what was, for Belarusans, a newly established genre: "social prose." In the discourse of this genre, Bykau not only shared with the reader his views, hopes, and concerns for Belarusan history and destiny but also established himself as a statesman. In terms of belles lettres, there was a significant change in his literary choices during this period: Bykau wrote little, and as a rule, only short stories. Most of his work at the time was published in the journal Polymia (The flame). In the final years of the twentieth century, literary scholars in Russia,

8 Vasil Bykau

and even more in Belarus, noted Vasil Bykau's emerging interest in existentialism. Bykau himself had already revealed his attraction to the philosophical ideas of existentialism in his 1992, interview with Juras Zaloska, when he expressed his high esteem for the writings of French existentialists Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. In this study I argue that the roots of Bykau's affinity with existentialism grew early in his writing career, although they strengthened perceptibly in the middle of the 19905. Starting with 1994 and continuing to the writer's last days (he did not stop writing until the end), I examine a change that took place in Bykau's creative literary practice, prompted by the political landscape in Belarus. The year 1994 was critical for this country: the election of Alaksandar Lukasenka, the first democratically chosen president, changed the course of incipient democracy in Belarus, steering it toward domination by one man and a police-oriented state. Bykau passionately opposed this situation, and was a vocal opponent of a return to the communist past. This alone made him the cardinal dissident in the country and brought him much personal hardship. Despite Bykau's social and political contributions - or perhaps because of them - Lukasenka had prohibited the Belarusan media any contact with the writer by 1996. This prohibition, however, did not slow Bykau's literary activities. In 1995-^6, he published a short novel, ten short stories, and one extended essay. During this time Bykaii also rewrote or, more accurately, reconstructed some of his earlier works that had been corrupted by Soviet censorship. One of the most significant of these is Sciuza (The chill), which portrays the history of collectivization in Belarus. This short novel was first written in 1969 and then rewritten in 1991; it was accepted for publication in late 1992. and appeared only in 1994 in the six volumes of his collected works. This high degree of productivity in traditional genres continued until 1998, the year PEN International invited the Bykaus to live in Finland, where he spent two fruitful years. After Finland they accepted a similar invitation from the German chapter of PEN. In December 2002, the Bykaus moved to Prague by personal invitation of Vaclav Havel, and encountered the same warmth, hospitality, and enthusiastic readership they had found in Finland and Germany. Existentialism continued to be a literary and philosphical influence in his creative works. Thus, starting with 1998, a new genre emerged in Bykau's writings: the parable. Existentialists in Western Europe had practised this genre for decades, uniting literature with theology, philosophy, myth, legend, and fairy tale. A new collection of parables appeared in the year 2000, under the title Pachadzane (The pilgrims). Vasil Bykaii con-

9 Introduction

tinued to write in this genre, and currently there are enough parables for two more volumes, which will be published in the near future. Although the Czechs extended their invitation to stay in their country for as long as he and his wife wanted (Bykau had politely declined many invitations to emigrate to the West), the elderly, ailing couple longed for their home country. Vasil and Iryna Bykau were determined not to return to Belarus permanently while the dictator ruled it, but they had no intention of emigrating either. In an interview with Izvestiia correspondent Aleksander Arkhangelskii, published posthumously on 2,3 June 2003, Bykau said: "I feel like a person who left with high hopes of returning home." In Prague Vasil Bykau was diagnosed with cancer and underwent surgery. The couple came to visit Belarus at the end of May 2003 for a period of two weeks with a return ticket to Prague for 6 June, but this ticket was never used. Vasil Bykau passed away on zz June. The funeral took place in Miensk on Z5 June zoo3. It became a demonstration of the people's grief when many thousands gathered to pay tribute and bid farewell to their writer. The interest in Belarusan language, literature, and philosophical ideas is now on its way to recovery after a hiatus on both sides of the ocean. This interest is enhanced by the fact that Lukasenka's regime is the last remaining dictatorship in Europe, and is therefore a danger to democracy around the world. Lukasenka's approval of Hitler's actions and his present-day affiliations with some of the Middle East's antidemocratic figures are often discussed in the press. Today Vasil Bykau is a symbol of Belarusan resistance to inhumanity in that part of the globe, vividly exemplifying high moral values and a strong opposition to injustice. His experience and expertise in extreme circumstances, in a time of real yet silent war, is also invaluable for North Americans. I hope that this research will broaden both the scholarly and the lay understanding of contemporary Belarusan literature and culture. Vasil Bykau, as an ambassador of Belarusan literature and national culture, is an excellent primary source for such an understanding. As Bird noted, the "Czech critic Vaclav Zudlicky has said that Bykaii 'represents war through the dialectics of the human soul.' And historian Jan Zaprudnik calls Bykau Belarus's 'Foremost novelist and outspoken critic of the status quo.'"5 The present monograph was written before Vasil Bykau passed away on zz July zoo3 and joined the generation that is almost no more. (In fact, only 3 per cent of the soldiers who were born between i^zz and 1924 came home after World War Two.) The rest of his life after this war, in particular his literary career, became a tribute to this generation. Since

10 Vasil Bykau

his death, people continue to engage his moral authority in relation to national, social, and artistic issues. Currently, a lively volume of responses to Bykau's intellectual legacy could be compiled. However, my book does not serve to canonize Vasil Bykau in any way. His place in Belarusan, Russian, and other Slavic and non-Slavic literatures (in translation) is secured through his own work.

CHAPTER ONE

Childhood Vasilok, the Blue Cornflower

Every artist was born somewhere, and even if later the new environment influences him, a certain essence, certain odor of his native land will always be in his work. Marc Chagall, The Artist: The Works of the Mind National belonging has an element of spontaneity. This is an element that everyone carries in his genes. Just being born signifies national belonging. First, the place of birth is very important. Second, the culture is equally important. For me all of this was Belarusan, place of birth, culture, and, somehow, education ... Simple things, such as childhood dreams, are always connected with something in the past that, in its turn, is connected with the Motherland. Vasil Bykau, interview in Zap/sy23

Marc Chagall (1887-1985) and Vasil Bykau (1924-2003) are countrymen of different historical and religious backgrounds, but their statements could be interchangeable because they share similar emotions about their birthplace, Belarus. Chagall's everlasting bond with his place of birth was expressed throughout his long and productive life in all the artistic media in which he worked: visual art, criticism, poetry, and prose. His poetry reflects on his emotional longing for Belarus and identifies the country with the artist's yearning for a return to his childhood. Chagall writes: My fatherland is in my soul, You understand? I come in there without an entrance visa.

12 Vasil Bykau

When I am lonely, she sees to it, She puts me to bed and wraps me up, as mothers do.1

Although Vasil Bykau attended the Art College in Viciebsk where Marc Chagall had studied thirty-nine years earlier, Bykau heard very little about the famous artist until later in life. When he did at last discover Chagall, Bykau fell in love with the artistic spirit of his countryman. After that, nothing could stop him from leading the campaign against the anti-Semitic forces in Belarus that refused even to recognize that Chagall was born and raised in that country, and there married his first love, Bella. Both men - Marc Chagall, recognized as a leading artist of the twentieth century, and Vasil Bykau, the most important Belarusan prose writer - grew up passionately loving the same country. And if love and passion are a corollary of talent, perhaps we may then assume that the talent of both these Belarusan artists was grounded in and stemmed from the same source: their native land. A radiant blue is the colour of childhood everywhere. It is also one of the most pronounced colours in the palette of Marc Chagall, the artist who, in the words of the researcher Charles Sorlier, "is noted for his fidelity to himself, his roots and themes that were close to him."* One of Chagall's favourite flowers was the blue cornflower that grew everywhere around him in his youth. This flower, called Vasilok in Belarusan, links Marc Chagall and Vasil Bykau both symbolically and metaphorically. Vasilok (blue cornflower), Vasil (Basil), Vasil Vialiki (Basil the Great): these names, melodically pronounced in Belarusan, were often addressed to the same person: Vasil Uladzimiravic Bykau.3 Vasilok is the most endearing and intimate of all. Vasil Bykaufirst heard it from his parents and siblings; later only his closest friends and Iryna Michajlauna, his muse and second wife, called him by the name of this hardy flower whose colour matched his eyes and the deep lakes of his homeland. Vasilok is a flower that often grows in the meadows and among the spikes of rye and wheat in Belarus, a symbol of the country, or more precisely, of Belarusan children and youth, who love to make wreaths from it to crown their flaxen hair. So too did Bykau when he was a child. Vasilok's childhood was as short as the sky-blue cornflower's summer. His origin and early days were entirely typical for a Belarusan of his generation. He was born on 19 June 192,4, the year of Lenin's death and the decline of the New Economic Policy (NEP). Like everyone else in the neighbourhood and in other villages around him, Bykaii's own family grew more impoverished every year under the new Soviet regime. In one of Bykaii's autobiographical sketches, the reader will recognize a phrase

13 Childhood

from Chekhov: "As a child, I did not have a childhood. "4 Bykau's late friend and colleague, Ales Adamovic, repeated this notion in a short photographic biography. 5 In this book, Adamovic interviews Bykau about his childhood. Some of the responses are unexpectedly intimate given Bykau's generally reserved character, and such answers, because of his unique emotional memory, are valuable for understanding Vasilok's childhood. In private conversation, he acknowledged this powerful gift of memory, which never left him. In the following excerpt from his interview with Adamovic, Bykau's emotional memory speaks for itself; it is also interesting to note how poetic his language is in relation to his childhood memories: VB: I remember myself, definitely and absolutely, since I was about five years old. The first impressions are bound to our lake. The name of our village is Bycki, in the Usacki region. It just so happened that in the village most of the children my age were girls; the boys were three to four years older. And once, my friend Valodzia Halavac suggested that we go to the lake. The lake was only about a kilometre and a half away, but the way to it was a whole new world for a five year old. On the way, one had to pass a meadow, a field of flax, then a ravine to reach a hill; and suddenly, directly from the hill, there is the panorama of the lake. The weather was beautiful, and the reflection of the forest shore, hanging upside down with all its trees - mostly huge fir trees - was so real, and yet out of this world ... My first, and not only my first but also my most poetic, my most romantic and happy perception of the world, emerged from this lake. We were swimming and fishing and catching crawfish in that lake. The boys would light up a resinous snag, and the crawfish would come out, the whole colony of them. I was a bit afraid of them: you give them a finger and they'll snap it with their claws ... A bit further down, beavers used to live ... Our family was small: my father and mother, my brother, sister, and grandmother. My father was called Uladzimir Chviadaravic. I consider my parents to be from the unluckiest generation imaginable, poor things ... Their life became a little less harsh only at the very end of it, and even so ... When my father was young, he used to do seasonal labour in the brick factories in Lifliandyia, as he used to call Latvia. We owned very little land; I don't remember now exactly how much land we had, but it was not enough to feed the family. Later my father was drafted into the army and served four years in Hrodna, by the way.6 He was mobilized by Samson's army during World War One

14 Vasil Bykau

and was captured by Germans. He was working on a German farm ... Later on he fought in the civil war. My mother, Hanna Ryhorauna, came from a village that later ended up on the Polish side. Her brother and other members of her family remained there. It was a rather dramatic experience to gain knowledge of in early childhood: the separation of our family and our people. Our father was rather strict; everyone in our family was a bit afraid of him. Mother, on the contrary, was very delicate, compassionate; I never heard a loud word from her. She was the embodiment of tenderness and endearment and was very kind to us, the children. I think it was very wrong of her to be so overwhelmingly kind. [At this moment, Ales Adamovic (hereafter, AA) could not contain his surprise; he had heard something unexpectedly revealing in his friend's most intimate confession.] AA: - What do you mean? VB: You see, I inherited from her something that became part of my character, and it never helped me in life. It is odd to admit it, but no matter how hard I try to overcome her qualities in me, it never works ... Even when I board a tram, I am always the last one in line ... You think it is pleasant to keep it all in mind? No, it is nice to recall something you like. Tvardoiiski used to say that he does not like to remember his youth, and I do not like to remember my childhood.7 This interview with Ales Adamovic sheds much light on Bykau's character. Such unexpected, intimate revelations surprised Adamovic, who knew better than many people the reserved nature of his friend, and emphasized the truthfulness that is central to Bykau's being. My experience with the writer (three extended interviews over the past eight years, in addition to being a reader and student of his works for as long as I can remember) has taught me a few things about him: he was a complicated person, but his most pronounced qualities were his inner strength and honesty. Furthermore, he was easy to deal with, because before demanding honesty from others, he sought and found it within himself, no matter how painful the search. Bykau's legendary moral integrity was built on these rare human qualities, but what made him most attractive as a character was that he allowed others to think and act according to their personal needs and feelings. Bykau would try to convince an interlocutor or opponent to change their point of view tactfully and without imposing. However, if the differences were irrec-

15 Childhood

oncilable and an opponent clearly took an unjust position for personal and egotistic reasons, Bykau would deal with such a situation uncompromisingly and stand by his beliefs. Bykau, self-reliant in his own ideas and train of thought, was an excellent researcher. He would never pronounce upon a subject that he had not focused on earlier, either in his work or his private life. Bykau analyzed and synthesized with a logic that would be envied by a professional philosopher. And as with any true philosopher, he was first aware of his own nature. According to those who knew him personally, Bykau, because of his strong personality and his perpetual involvement in work, did not seem to need many people around him. Some also found Vasil Bykau hard to approach: a prominent Belarusan linguist warned me of this while walking me to his apartment in 1995. This was my first meeting with the writer, and my linguist friend told me not to get upset if, for example, Bykau should stop the interview in the middle - or earlier. She compared him to a mollusk that immediately retreats into its shell whenever threatened, but she had never met him personally. My own experience and observations have been quite different. Unlike many elderly people, especially those from the former Soviet Union who are so often dissatisfied with life, angry, and envious, Bykau seemed to have no "shell" at all; his soul was young, and crystal clear, as if somehow during his life he discarded all the protective armour age and experience often bring. Ryhor Baradulin, a close friend of Vasil Bykau and one of the greatest Belarusan poets, had a lifetime of experience with him. In Baradulin's view, people who considered Bykau to be cold are wrong; despite Bykau's occasionally reserved manner, Baradulin, like other close friends, found him a warm, social, and humorous person. He thinks that Bykau evaluated people quickly; if he felt an individual to be trustworthy, he would open up with such kindness and unconditional, childlike honesty that everyone could see that his previous reserve was just the self-defence of an often-hurt but luminous soul. I would also like to note a similarity in the deep and complex feelings toward childhood that unites such different writers as Aleksander Tvardovsky and Bykau. They are known for repeating Chekhov's phrase: "As a child I didn't have any childhood." Probably the most powerful emotion they shared was a primal shame for the poverty, hunger, and injustices they had to experience in their youth. Another overwhelming feeling of shame was often evoked by a complete dependency on others, the circumstances of which they were unable to understand. This is very possibly why children in the literary works of these writers, and in particular Bykau, often do not have any childhood. Like their creators, these

16 Vasil Bykau

children live in a harsh reality. In Bykau's work, this is often seen in the extreme historical and social circumstances of his fiction, where the joy and serenity traditionally attributed to childhood are absent. Being true to themselves, these writers would never dignify poverty, hunger, dependency, and other forms of injustice. Another characteristic common to Chekhov, Tvardovsky, and Bykaii is that later in life each reworked these feelings of helplessness into a personal stand against social and economic injustices. One wonders whether these emotions were not also responsible for the writers' morality, humanity, and finally, appreciation of life. Childhood also seems to have an atmosphere particular to each individual. People are surprised when childhood memories, fears, fantasies, and impressions appear unexpectedly in our adult world and turn it upside down. These emotions may also clear up something that had been unexplainable. The influence of childhood and adulthood is mutual, but hardly comparable in their strength. The mingled confusion and fear of a powerless child appear to be deeply engraved in Bykau's character. The possibility, and perhaps even the proof of such a supposition is found once again in Adamovic's book: VB: I think it was in 1932. Every evening my father would attend meetings. Meetings, meetings: they lasted until morning. We were still asleep; I woke up because my mother was crying. As a child I was very much attuned to her moods; I felt great when she was happy. I also immediately reacted, like a barometer, if her mood went down. So I hear my mother's cry. This had never happened before; if something was happening between her and father, she would usually stop talking. And here she was sobbing, choking with tears and screaming as if she were mourning a dead person. I joined them. It turned out that the day before our village had been formed into a collective farm. And this morning the authorities had come and taken all the seeds my family owned. It was the month of March, time to sow. And what could they do now? How would they feed the children? What would they eat themselves? My father was sitting as if he had been beaten up. So it all started back then.8 And what actually started for Vasilok, who was eight years old when the collectivization took place? Hunger, destitution, and above all - and this is hardly comprehensible at any age, let alone to an inexperienced young boy - an overwhelming feeling of shame at poverty and injustice. This shame was built on the fear that somehow he was responsible for what was going on around him. In combination with the simultaneous

17 Childhood

feelings of pity, empathy, and compassion for his parents, siblings, and neighbours, this shame and fear may in great part explain why Bykau is reluctant to remember his childhood. In his conversations with Adamovic, Bykau called himself a "chronicler."? His biography is, indeed, for Belarusans of his generation, fully revealed in his literary works, where he always wrote from first-hand knowledge. 'Lnak Biady (Sign of misfortune),10 and in particular Sciuza (The chill),11 were excellently served by this chronicler's unique emotional memory as the first literary accounts of strong anti-collectivization sentiment ever written in Belarusan. There is a fleeting yet perceptive remark in Adamovic's book to the effect that Bykau, as a chronicler of the infantry during World War Two, was in reality the spokesman for the millions of villagers who had been taken from their native fields and forcibly transformed into field soldiers. This notion, not yet examined in the scholarship on Bykau, seems to explain both the writer's devotion to his subject matter and his immense popularity among his readership, some of whom can relate their private experiences to his literary work, while others use it as a historical source. All this came later in life. Vasilok's childhood, however, was as complex and full of misconceptions as that of any child his age. One of these misconceptions is revealed in the following tragicomic episode, in which Bykaii recalls the deportation of the kulaks: "I remember that their families were deported in the fall. A fellow that we went to school with was also supposed to be deported, so I went to see him off. He told me while they were boarding the carts that these carts would take them to the train station, and that after they would go by train. And I felt so jealous, because my father had not been dispossessed like a kulak. If he had been, I would also have had the chance of a trip by train."" From a very early age the boy escaped the harsh reality of his life through literature. When he was six (Belarusan students start school at the age of seven), he approached a young educator, Anton Aulasenkau, who recognized in Vasilok an ardour for knowledge and allowed him to attend classes. Bykau very soon became the best student in the school and read whatever he could put his hands on. His favourite writers at the time were Thomas M. Read, Jack London, Arkadii Gaidar, Maksim Gorkii, Vladimir Korolenko, Ivan Goncharov, and Leo Tolstoi. Although he read these authors in Russian, Bykau had started to read first in Belarusan. One of the first short stories that his father gave him was Mixas Lynkou's^ collection of short stories, Goy (The gentile 1929.) Later on Vasilok was captivated by the power of the native word as he discovered

18 Vasil Bykau

the writings of Francisak Bahusevic,14 Maksim Bahdanovic,15 Janka Kupala,16 Jakub Kolas,^ and many others. All of this reading was sporadic, of course; in the hectic life of the first-born son in a peasant family, reading was possible only at the expense of sleep. This supposition is made on the basis of my last interview with Vasil Bykau, a part of which is reprinted here to give Bykau's own account of his formative years. ZG: Vasil Utadzimiravic, I'm confused about the location of your birthplace. Some sources specify it as the village of Bycki while others, like Kasack's encyclopedia, indicate Carapouscyna. VB: Oh, this is very easy. Carapouscyna, a small village near my native Bycki, had a registration office at the time of my birth, while Bycki didn't. So my parents took me over there for the normal procedures of registering my birth. ZG: Did you have any animals in your private household while you were growing up - maybe a cow, or a horse? VB: But of course we did. We had a very nice cow and a lovely, hardworking horse before the collectivization. I still remember them and other animals at our - not rich, but well-to-do - farm. I was already eight years old when they started to organize peasants in our area into collective farms. Even today I can recall every detail of life before and after that time. Memories of my father, who by himself built us a new house, are always with me. You see, our old hut was becoming quite run down. My father would rush home at lunchtime; and with a snack in one hand and an axe in the other, he would climb the ladder to the frame of the new home, working single-handedly on a section for a full hour. Then he would hurry back to the collective farm to continue his work there. ZG: Did your neighbours help build the house? VB: No one could come because they had no time to spare. In those days people were terrified by the authorities, and worked very hard on the collective farms and at home for themselves. Don't forget that quite often there were more bosses - lapdogs, foremen, and team leaders - than peasants and workers. Picture the following. Both of my parents were working at the collective farm. Like others, they got nothing for their hard labour, only promises of full payment, in cash and produce, by the fall. And late one autumn day my father came home, carrying a very light sack. The content of this sack was only farm produce. No money. And with this little sack my parents were supposed to feed the family for a whole year. True, there was a family plot; we called it aharod [a garden]. It took up almost a quarter of

19 Childhood

an acre of the land. By today's standards it is probably not so bad. Back then, however, my parents had to give the state a substantial portion of their private harvest. ZG: What kind of goods were they supposed to produce? VB: Meat, milk, eggs ... in addition, pigskin and all kinds of animal skin. Every year my family was allowed to kill one pig. Part of the meat we were permitted to keep in the family, but all of the skin from this animal had to be handed over to the government authorities. All of our possessions were constantly counted by the state services, and they were terribly strict. Besides this type of control - or on top of it people were supposed to pay taxes and insurance. In addition, peasants, like everyone else, were forced to buy government bonds. Like the others, we had no money, so they would extend us credit for these bonds. One way or the other, the government would always take money, and whatever else it could, from the population. ZG: Where was your school, and how did your parents manage to dress you without money? VB: We were always dressed in rags; a pair of shoes was a luxury, and the school was located three kilometres away. So we were covering six kilometres of winter roads, often on foot over snowdrifts. Mind you, there were no real roads. No one could have dreamt of today's road infrastructure, because in those days there was very little auto transportation. As schoolchildren, we would find a little path and walk knee-deep in the snow with wet feet. A part of the way was across marshes, and those paths were wet during all four seasons. At school our feet were always wet and cold. When the weather was really bad, we stayed at home. That was the way we lived. ZG: If one compares this kind of living with serfdom, it seems that the serfs lived better and had more rights than the peasantry under the Soviets. VB: I agree wholeheartedly. Here is an example: once, in Hungary, we had a chance to witness how serfdom worked, and to observe relationships between peasants and private landowners. As you know, before the war Hungary was a semi-feudal agrarian state. To make a long story short, there were huge private estates where the landlord would hire seasonal farm labourers. Once we were stationed at one of these estates. Not far from the landlord's beautiful house - actually, more like a castle than a house - there were a few nice buildings, like student residences in the West today. The seasonal labourers occupied them. Our soldiers, of course, asked them about their lives. The labourers complained about everything: they were not in posses-

20 Vasil Bykau

sion of any land themselves and had to work hard for the local count, who lived mainly in Budapest and rarely visited the place. His manager, for the most part, dealt with the labourers. "And how does he pay?" asked our soldiers. "Oh, quite miserably," answered the workers. By the end of the season each of them would receive ten pounds of flour, meat, eggs, garden produce, and fifteen hundred forints [Hungarian currency]. In addition, he would supply them with free meals and dwelling during the working season. Of course, our soldiers were nodding their heads in compassion. The labourers would ask questions in return about life on the collective farms. Our soldiers, with notorious Slavic pride, would say that they lived remarkably well. They were very creative in their answers: "We have at least twice as much as you have," was a typical response. ZG: Did political commissars monitor those conversations? VB: Of course they did. As a matter of fact, they would initiate and conduct such conversations. Honest people would not take part in such crap, but communists and their lapdogs spread propaganda whenever they could. ZG: What kind of crop did your parents grow on your personal plot back home? VB: Potatoes and barley were our main produce. What kind of crop can you grow on a quarter of an acre? By March we were usually out of potatoes, and the bread would disappear from our table much earlier. ZG: What did you eat, then? VB: Food was the greatest problem when I was growing up. We would come home from school and there would be practically nothing to eat. My poor mother used to make pancakes from a stinging nettle. She used to mix it up with a bit of barley. Even today I remember the horrid taste. We ate soup made with nettles, and this was our diet until a new crop of potatoes could be harvested in early summer. For the rest of my life I will remember the feeling I experienced when I saw the very first pot of small new potatoes. The smell and the taste of these new baby potatoes, the impatience that we hungry kids felt while waiting to eat them, is hard to imagine, of course. ZG: For how long did this kind of hunger and overall poverty continue? VB: In my area it lasted from the beginning of collectivization until well after World War Two. Footwear was another problem related to our poverty: there was no money to buy shoes, and even if one could save enough money it was very hard to find any to buy.

21 Childhood

ZG: What was your footwear, then? VB: Primarily, we all had bast shoes. There were several kinds: summer bast sandals were made from bark; the winter types were called rope shoes. They were made from little ropes and insulated with hay. This type of winter footwear was much warmer, but still not like real winter boots, as we know them today. ZG: Did you have electricity in your house? VB: No, we didn't. And all households experienced a lack of kerosene for oil lamps. In the winter, it was already fairly dark when we came home after school. The management of the collective farm kept track of each household's use of kerosene. They operated with a coupon system and distributed oil once a month. A ration was only a litre a month per family. So, imagine an oil lamp of primitive design that would give you the light of a candle, maybe less, and what kind of light was it, after all? This lamp would produce more soot than light. Our lungs were always full of soot. With this light we would read and prepare for the next day of school. I remember our parents objected when we used that lamp just for reading. I can still remember their voices: "We're almost out of kerosene, be careful." ZG: Where did you go to school? VB: It was a four-year primary school, in a village called Dvorslabodka. Our school was located on a former landlord's estate. Of course, there was no landlord at the time; his estate had been expropriated and was being used as a school. ZG: Was it a nice estate? VB: Oh, it was a beautiful home, surrounded by old trees. It also had gardens and a park. There were nice stables and other buildings on the land of that estate. The most attractive thing for us children, however, was a pond where we swam all summer long - and don't forget the fishing. ZG: Did you have a decent library in that school? VB: We didn't have a library; there were, however, two bookcases with locked doors. Our teacher held the key, and he guarded it with his life. He would give us books from there as a kind of "tsar's favour": only the best students could approach him about a book to take home, and even then everything depended on his mood. You see, books were an expensive commodity at the time and considered to be a luxury item. ZG: Where did you continue your education after the fourth grade? VB: There was a high school in a township called Kublicy. It used to be a beautiful place, but now it looks like a typically godforsaken

22 Vasil Bykau

Belarusan village. Back then the township was still flourishing; there were many stores, a nice church, and a lovely synagogue. Our school was located on a hill. ZG: How many grades were there? VB: Ten grades was the standard at school in my youth, and this school taught children at all levels. It started with grade one, and there were plenty of children back then. We had several parallel classes for each grade. There were approximately twenty-five to thirty schoolchildren in each class. ZG: What else do you remember about the town? VB: As I mentioned, before the war Kublicy was a picturesque place. It was burned and completely destroyed during and after the occupation. Actually, the Soviets started to change the face of the township rather early. Before them, the focal point of life for the locals - it was a predominantly Jewish settlement - was the market square. When the Soviets took over, they left a fire station as a landmark and built the rural area Soviet House. The most important thing, however, was the fact that the Polish border was only a kilometre and a half away. As the result, there were a lot of frontier guards in Kublicy, and they occupied the commandant's office. They built a brick office for themselves at the market square; this house became a towering landmark over Kublicy's scenery. These people changed everything about life in Kublicy. They separated themselves from other residents by building three to four metres of fence on the market square. First the market yielded its place, and by the end of the 19308 it had practically disappeared. There were no longer any goods to sell. ZG: Have you had any contact with your schoolmates since the war? VB: Because it was a predominantly Jewish settlement, most of the population was destroyed. Only one boy from my class survived the war. A few Jewish girls from my school survived as well, I heard. ZG: Was the survivor your friend Meyer? VB: Yes, his last name was Sviardlou [Sverdlov]. ZG: Is this a real name, not a pseudonym? VB: It's his authentic name. ZG: Somehow I thought that Sviardlou was a pseudonym, as in the case of Jacob Sviardlou, the Bolshevik. VB: Meyer was not related to that Sviardlou. He had a brother and sisters: they were orphans and lived as a family in Kublicy. Meyer survived because the Red Army drafted him right before the war. He fought in the war from beginning to end, and we were frequently in touch after the war. He lived in Moscow for a long time, actually,

23 Childhood

right after the war, but regularly visited me, especially when I moved to Miensk. We would go together to Usacy. Kublicy ... I haven't had any news from him for a long time. ZG: And what about the other nationalities of the area? Did they practise their faiths during your school years? VB: Now, let me tell you more about Kublicy. By the thirties the church building was already damaged. They pulled down the crosses, dismantled the church domes and bells, and stole bricks. It was an old church with a great library of many books, including ancient manuscripts. Some of them were in Old Slavonic, written on parchment. All of them were severely damaged. As boys, we would make kites from these parchments and fly them. And all those church belongings, ornaments, woven materials, robes from the sacristy, and the rest of the valuables from the church were either stolen or destroyed. The church vestments, covered with silver and golden threads, were taken to a sewing factory and little Turkish hats were made from them. A few years before the war, everyone, especially the young people, teenagers, and schoolchildren, were wearing these little Muslim hats. The synagogue was closed at the same time, though it seems that there was some life left; the Jews even opened a little corner shop. The Catholic centre in Seliscy maintained some kind of existence, though. I remember that the Catholics held services on holy days. They also had a little market where apples and smoked fish were sold. Anyway, I was baptized in the Orthodox Church, the one that was destroyed. Of course I don't remember my baptism, but I remember a few communions in that church when the priest would give us a spoonful of sweet church wine; it was very, very delicious. There was also a church choir, and they sang (at least it seems to me today) so well, so beautifully. The Catholic church in Seliscy was also only three kilometres from my village; Bycki, Kublicy, and Seliscy are very closely situated, you see. We kids didn't like to go to services at that church, because at the entrance we were forced to kiss the crucifix, and this we couldn't stand. However, the women, the "old bags" who were always standing there, were very strict and watched us attentively, so we couldn't just run around, we had to behave properly, as true believers should. ZG: Would you go to Catholic churches because there was no Orthodox church in the neighbourhood? VB: Yes, that was the reason. What else can I tell you about Kublicy? We had a pharmacy. It was equipped in the same way as a city pharmacy of the times. It had many porcelain bottles of different medicine

24 Vasil Bykau

with blue enamel inscriptions. Nearby was a small walk-in clinic, where a doctor by the name of Daskevic used to work. The doctor, of course, became the subject of repression later on, sometime in 1937, together with all the Orthodox and Catholic priests. ZG: And with the teachers - was it the same campaign? VB: Yes, of course they never forgot the teachers. The political police [NKVD] also took away the principal of our school, a man by the name of Karceuski. I remember well how he presented me with a pair of shoes. The members of the collective farms who worked in the fields during spring, summer, and fall had to work for the forest industry in the wintertime. They were cutting trees, transporting them to the railroad, and sending them to the mines in the Donbas region. So the male population, the muzyks, had to go pretty far, about twenty kilometres away from home, in order to work in forestry. It was there that my father fell sick; he got typhus and was hospitalized. So my mother and we children were on our own for a while. We had no fuel, not a log in the house to start a fire. Like everyone else, we had a wood stove. In order to start that stove, I had to go to the nearest forest and collect brushwood. My footwear fell apart from these daily trips. The school principal, Karceuski, saw me and said, "Bykau, go to the village shop and choose a pair of shoes for yourself, and ask the seller to put them aside." I went, chose the shoes (they happened to have some in the store, to my great good fortune), and they put them aside. Karceuski came later and bought them for me. They were so new, of a yellow colour, and had excellent soles. Those shoes were, of course, my real pride. I brought them home, and my mother said: "Please don't wear them outside, you should have them only for school." For two years in a row I wore them only in school. That was the way we lived. This teacher, Karceuski, fell victim to repression as well. He disappeared, together with some other teachers. Many civil servants from our township joined them. I mentioned before that the Polish border was nearby; as a result, we had a lot of special military detachments in close proximity, border guards and their officers (who belonged to the secret service). They were the enforcers behind the repressions in our area. The sad irony of the matter is that these officers were also victims of repression. I know, because we had a teacher of Russian language and literature, Akulava, whose husband, Captain Akulau, was also arrested. I remember she would come to school redeyed from crying, because of the pressure to reject her husband as an "enemy of the people." Otherwise, she wouldn't be allowed to continue her work at school. Later on, she either left the place on her own

25 Childhood

or disappeared as well. This was the situation in our township. ZG: I imagine there wasn't much enthusiasm for collective farms and the government in your village. VB: There were only twelve households in our village, and six muzyks out of these twelve families became subjects of repression. These were barely literate people who were completely uninterested in politics. And no, there was not much enthusiasm for the government: people simply kept quiet. Right after the Party's Twentieth Congress, as you know, there was a lot of rehabilitation: marshals, generals, economists, and people of so-called high status. At the same time, you would never hear about the rehabilitation of masses of people, like those six peasants who disappeared without a sign. ZG: No one ever mentioned those disappearances, even after that Congress of the Party of 1956? VB: Actually they were mentioned, but in the habitual form of a Soviet travesty. You see, those people who were falsely incriminated had families. Their children were often fighting Nazis in the regular army and in various partisan detachments. So, after that Congress the victims were issued some kind of "collective pardon," and each family received sixty rubles compensation. By this compensation the government, "did those families justice." I remember one person in our village, Dem'ian Azievic. He was an invalid and a veteran of World War One. He possessed a unique skill in our village: he could repair any kind of watch. Dem'ian wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen, but he could do anything mechanically. His shop was located at the windowsill of his little hut. People from all over the area would bring him their old clocks and watches, and they were very happy with his work. Of course, almost no one had wristwatches at the time; mainly we had pocket watches, most made before the Revolution, in the tsar's era. Dem'ian was so skilful that he would even replace the glass on these watches: he would cut it from old lamps or bottles. I was a kind of partner in his "business" because I used to bring him my teachers' watches for repair. They would pay him a ruble, and he would give me, his "agent," twenty kopecks. Our partnership lasted for a few years, until one night they came for him, and he disappeared as others had.18 Vasil Bykau's responses to my questions were often more like short stories than answers. At this point, our conversation turned to a year that apparently played a very important role in his life. In fact, in terms of forming his artistic tastes and acquiring his primary formal skills and

26 Vasil Bykau

experience in artistic media, the year 1939-40 marked the only liberal arts training that Vasil Bykau was to receive. To underestimate this period in Bykau's life would be not only to overlook a great many factors in his social and professional growth but also to miss one of the examples of the writer's remarkable capacity to recognize the truth and to stand by it. I have already noted that Bykau's famous countryman, Marc Chagall, studied in the same school from 1900 to 1905 with Jehuda Pen, and after the revolution of 1917 taught there for a few years.19 Bykau displayed great civil courage in his unwavering defence of Chagall, and his public and educational activities in connection with Chagall and other artists born in Belarus in different historical eras. At the same time, as the reader will perceive from the interview that follows, Vasil Bykau spoke modestly about both his studies in the Viciebsk Art College and his role in "bringing back" Chagall to his birthplace: ZG: Why did you decide to go to art college? VB: When I was in school, we had a counselor, a Boy Scout leader, called pijanervazaty [pioneers' leader], Victar Kantracky. He worked with us for a year or two and later enrolled in the art college in Viciebsk. This school was really eminent at that time, and not only in Belarus. When I was taking my entrance exams later on, the boys and girls who were taking these exams with me came from all over the former Soviet Empire. Some were from Smalensk [Smolensk], some even from the Caucasus - Georgia, for example - as well as other places, but predominantly the students were from Russia. ZG: Did the students know, back then, the names of the school's artists and teachers? Were they attracted to the college because of Pen or others?10 VB: Certainly. Most of them had heard of Pen and his colleagues, but by the time I took my entrance exam, Pen had perished. The memory of him, however, was very much present in Viciebsk. Pen used to live in a house on Gogol Street, on the second floor. He lived there until 1937, the year he was killed. When I came to Viciebsk two years later, his tiny apartment had already been turned into a museum. His paintings were all over that modest apartment: they were on the walls of the corridor and the staircase, and of course, they took up all the walls of his tiny rooms. Even today I remember his paintings and where they were located. Marc Chagall, who had been Pen's student, reorganized our college right after the revolution.511 Immediately before and after the revolution a lot of prominent artists were working there.

27 Childhood

ZG: Male vie [Malevich], for example. VB: There was Malevic, Dabuzyriski [Dobuzhinskii], who was in Petrahrad [Petrograd], in Viciebsk, and after that in Vilnia [Vilnius]. The rest of the time he lived abroad. El Liasicki [Lissitzky] was also working there.12 ZG: So many world-renowned artists were involved with the art college in one way or another. Tell me more about the school. VB: Viciebsk Art College, under Pen, was called the Art Shop; later on, Chagall changed the name to the Arts and Practical Institute. The following people were working there: avant-garde artists like El Liasicki, Malevic, Dabuzynski, Jarmalaiava [Ermolaeva], who fell victim to repression and later perished somewhere in Kazakhstan, Falk, Catkin [Zadkkine], and Kuprin,^ the impressionist. Another person from this school who is currently highly esteemed by visual arts lovers was discovered just recently: the avant-garde sculptor David Jakerson.z4 A Belarusan art critic found a few of his works in Vilnia. After that discovery, it turned out that some of his works are still in Viciebsk; they had been forgotten somewhere in the art museum vaults. ZG: So people continue to discover this precious artistic enclave. I suppose we might compare Viciebsk to the art community of Barbizon, where the impressionists worked near Paris. VB: I agree. I do have a volume about the history of Viciebsk, a book by Symanovic.1* It's really a good book, a labour of love, as they say, and it is a credit to Symanovic. I now have Symanovic's volume at home, and I go through it frequently. The book presents a fascinating and vivid portrait of many characters in their homage to Marc Chagall, but I still find Bykau's message to be the most powerful. Indeed, in his three short keynote speeches of 1991-92, delivered at festivities in Viciebsk and dedicated to Chagall, Bykau said it all: he illuminated Chagall's creative powers; he described the stupidity and obscurantism of Soviet officialdom and their many vain attempts to bury the memory of the great artist. Bykau also spoke most passionately to Chagall's sense of national belonging. He vividly depicted the artist's birthplace, pointed out the importance to Chagall's art of both Jewish and Belarusan cultures, and described how the two combined with Chagall's talent to transform his work into a store of universal culture: "With his roots in the Belarusan milieu, he is a leading light of Jewish culture, and both phenomena are natural and lawful. Every artist comes out into the world from his own national backyard, where

28 Vasil Bykau

as a child he absorbed its forms, its outlooks, its smell, and its colours. At last he establishes himself within a great and eternal culture, where he belongs to the whole world. Mankind is thankful to him, and acknowledges with gratitude that little corner of the earth, unknown before, that gave birth to him."2-6 As I translated this address, the beauty of Bykau's narration touched me: he spoke of Chagall in the same voice he used when he remembered his parents and his childhood. In the same speech, Bykau stated that from all the rich history of Viciebsk, a city about to celebrate its millennium, it might be only Marc Chagall whose name will stay in the world forever. He found the reasons for this in Chagall's universal humanity and spirituality. Bykau continued by comparing true spirituality to a talent that equals immortality. And it might well be that the current and former centuries in Belarus will also be celebrated by the fact that Vasil Uladzimiravic Bykau cherished and loved his motherland as much as Chagall did. Here are a few of Chagall's words from his lyrical address "To My City, Viciebsk," written in 1944: "For a long time, my beloved city, I did not see you, did not hear from you, did not speak with your clouds, and did not lean against your fences. As a sad pilgrim - I was carrying your breath all these years on my pictures. And this way I conversed with you and, as in a dream, I felt you."2? Reading this statement, one finds it easier to understand Bykau's rapport and close affinity with Chagall. At the same time, Bykau modestly disclaimed credit for his work re-establishing Chagall's place in Viciebsk and simply named those who helped - or hindered - the cause. VB: Baradulin was a driving force, as well as the Russian poet Andrey Vaznesensky [Voznesensky].28 Such a good group of people defended Chagall. On the other hand, did he need to be defended? Who can even try to explain to an obscurantist the greatness of his genius? I will tell you the sorts of questions they would usually ask: "You know that Chagall did the fresco in a synagogue at Rheum?" Or even better: "Do you know that he is a bourgeois artist?" Oh, my God ... Of course, I'm very happy that there is a museum in Viciebsk, but I'm worried about it. I've heard that some forces are behind a scheme to dismantle the museum. They claim that Chagall wasn't born in that little house, that the place is a fabrication. This is their usual way of operation: they create a lie, and afterward don't even try to replace it with the truth. ZG: Where do you think all of this comes from? VB: Oh, my friends and I know where it comes from: straight from

29 Childhood

the Savicky circle.2? After all, he pretends to be the number one artist in Belarus. And here suddenly Chagall appears, like a fishbone in his throat. ZG: Your efforts to bring Chagall back to his place of origin were very important for many people. How did this happen? VB: In the eighties we worked hard to bring Chagall's name back to Belarus. It sounds like an oxymoron: to rehabilitate Chagall, who was recognized all over the world - except in Belarus, the place of his birth and inspiration. At home he was nothing but a bourgeois artist, a Jewish artist; we were fighting in our country to reinstate this great man who had sprung from our part of the world. Thus, when I became a deputy of the Supreme Soviet in 1979, we wrote letters to the government; we also tried to convince the party leaders in Viciebsk to stop the witch hunt against Chagall. On the one hand, they didn't refuse us, but on the other, they did absolutely nothing. At the same time, we received invaluable help from scholars; finally, Chagall's birthplace was established. We found the little hut where he was born and grew up. People were living there; of course, they knew nothing about the history of the place. Little by little, however, our fight for Chagall turned into a victory. The initiator of all of this was the poet David Symanovic, of whom we spoke. But some Belarusan artists, especially Savicky, were absolutely against Chagall. ZG: That's hard to understand: why him? Savicky is such a talented artist himself. Why such dark feelings towards another talent, recognized by generations? VB: Why? Unfortunately it's crystal clear. Today he's Lukasenka's right hand among the intelligentsia. In the past he played the same role for the party leaders. Anyway, today this little hut, Chagall's birthplace, is his museum. The artist's daughter, Bella, came from France, and presented a few paintings by her father to the museum. ZG. What about your personal perception of his art when you came to the Viciebsk Art College as a youngster? VB: Chagall ... when I was at the school, Chagall had been gone at least fifteen years. His name was never mentioned, and he simply didn't exist for us. That came later. When he became famous in the West, the professionals started to bring his name up, first in Russia, and later on in Belarus. Otherwise he simply didn't exist for my contemporaries. ZG: You left the art college in 1940, before you finished. Why was that? VB: At school they didn't have any art supplies for the students; sometimes they would give us some paper for drawing, but even this was

30 Vasil Bykau

only an occasional help. That was one of the reasons I left the college. The cancellation of the grant for peasants' children in 1940 was the main reason. Before that we received a sixty-two-ruble stipend, but in the fall of 1940 the Council of People's Commissars cancelled our grants, and many peasants' children left the colleges: we had no other means at the time. I was out of the honey-based watercolour paint we used, and couldn't afford to buy more because it was pretty expensive. Today, of course, this paint would be a joke, but back then it was the best kind. So, for a month I stayed at the college, but since it was useless without art supplies, I left. And, Pen ... well, he was formally recognized, but the story of his death was always a great riddle. The official explanation, I remember, was that some of his relatives murdered him for his money. ZG: I heard, however, that his apartment was intact and even his money wasn't touched; that he was murdered, but all his material possessions were found untouched. VB: You know how it works back in our motherland. Everything is a state secret. There was some kind of short inquiry, then something quickly appeared in the newspapers, but the general public knew nothing. Now it's different; various documents have been published, and I've read that there is a suspect who was connected with the secret police. This suspect appeared a short while before the murder, than disappeared again after Pen's death. ZG: This is quite a sinister story. Pen was fairly old, and seemed generally apolitical. And what about the money? It wasn't taken. VB: My God, money - what kind of money could this poor old artist have? Nothing! Like everyone around him, he was poor. Maybe politics ... but he wasn't one of those who would get involved in politics or, say, nationalism. In fact, he had the reputation of being a very apolitical person. Anyway, when I started my studies, we, the new crop of students, knew Pen through his museum. The director of the college then was an artist, Ivan Achremcyk.3° He was a Belarusan artist who later became a People's Artist of Belarus. ZG: Was he a typical Soviet academic artist? VB: In an academic sense, he was all right. I remember in our college his workshop was on the first floor, with the window looking into the street, like in a store. Of course, the window had a curtain, and in wintertime, when twilight came early and he hadn't yet closed this curtain, we could see through the window. And we did look all the time. He had a cloth spread on a huge wall, with a many-figured composition on it. This composition portrayed Stalin, Lenin, and

31 Childhood

Dziarzynskii, as they appeared in public. There were others - the devil knows who else was there - and it portrayed some kind of congress. Overall, it was typical Soviet pretension instead of art; but at the same time, in terms of the amount of work involved, realistic details and so on, it was a tremendous job. He worked on it for many years. During the war this picture was destroyed, and he spent the rest of his life lamenting it. ZG: Who was your favourite teacher in the college? VB. Well, a favourite teacher ... of course, I had favourite teachers. I had a very good one, a visual artist called Isaac Leitman. And later on, when I moved to the department of sculpture, we had a teacher by the name of Beliaeva, Hanna Beliaeva.?1 She was an excellent teacher and a good person, not so young, but very caring. ZG: And where did your teachers study in their time? Moscow? St. Petersburg? Which artistic direction was predominant in your school at the time of your studies? VB: Different places ... most came to Viciebsk from all over the former Russian Empire. At that time we had only this one school in Belarus. Our college was known and popular. The teachers were either former students of Pen or outsiders. If one speaks of an art movement or direction that reigned in the school in my time, it wasn't avant-garde or Formalism; instead there was Realism - so-called Socialist Realism. Then the war flung my friends and acquaintances all over the place. One of my friends who lived in Miensk was Tkaconak.32 He is dead already, unfortunately. And sadly, he died in poverty, unknown, leaving behind many works somewhere. Then there was Jauhen Cichanovic,33 the senior artist; he's over ninety and is still living. He also graduated from Viciebsk Art College sometime during the thirties. Cichanovic remembers everything very well, and he wrote a memoir about the school. Actually, Cichanovic treasures greatly everything connected with the Viciebsk Art College, and strives to bring it to others. Besides, he's a son-in-law of the Belarusan Halubok, the theatre director and first People's Artist of Belarus. He was close to Kupala, Kolas, and many others. It was his misfortune to find himself under German occupation. Cichanovic was living in Miensk under the Germans, doing something as an artist; but, of course, after the war there was no life for him under the Soviets. Poor soul, at first he got so much from life, but later on ... ZG: Vasil Uladzimiravic, you left the college in 1940 after the grants were cancelled and went back to high school, from which you graduated in 1941. Where were you when the war started?

32 Vasil Bykau

VB: At that time I was in Ukraine, in Sostka [Shostka], where my uncle was living. I went there to work. He promised to help me further my studies: there was an Industrial Institute located there. The problem was that I arrived at my uncle's a week before the war started. When the war started ... well, no one thought that it would go the way it did. If I had known back then what I know now, I would have collected my things and run home. Of course he would have, but what would he have done at home? Vasilok had just turned seventeen. Unification with his family would have given him a feeling of safety, but what would be waiting for him? Belarus was entirely occupied, rapidly and very early. The Red Army would not yet draft him because of his age, and therefore there was only one path open to him: to join the partisan movement. And who knows what would have become of him and his family if he had pursued this option? It is hard to answer these questions even today. One thing is undoubtedly clear: no matter how difficult and bittersweet childhood was, the reality of young adulthood, for Vasilok's generation, was horrifying.

C H A P T E R TWO

Youth. Ukraine, the War. and Post-War Military Service

Lastly stood War, in glittering arms y-clad, With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued; In his right hand a naked sward he had That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued, And in the left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all. Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset "The Introduction," Works

Vasil Bykau was only seventeen in 1941, but he had accomplished much for his age: he had a high school diploma; he could draw and knew the basics of sculpture; he excelled in farm work; and he was a qualified construction worker. The diploma of his vocational school in Viciebsk stated that he had graduated with two specialties: as a concrete worker and as a fitter. All of this, however, was poor preparation for an unprecedented catastrophe: the war, which came without warning, and changed the world for many. The vast Soviet empire experienced the most severe losses in that war: twenty-nine million people. A third of the Belarusan population was dead by the time of the Soviet victory in May 1945. Vasil Bykaii belonged to the generation that barely survived this war; only 3 per cent of the front-line soldiers born in 192.2., 192.3, and 192.4 survived the war."J The first days of the war passed in naive euphoria. Bykaii, who had come to his uncle in Ukraine in hopes of entering the Industrial Institute, reacted to the war as any adolescent would. At first there were no doubts of a glorious victory. Somewhat later, people calmed themselves with the feeling that there must be a good explanation for the temporary delay of

34 Vasil Bykau

this victory. Eventually, the hardships of war took over, and no one had time to think about an overnight victory. Bykau shared his feelings of those days with Adamovic: "You know, today one can understand it all, but back then ... Well, the war's started, big deal! Our boys will fight back with equal force today or ... well, maybe tomorrow; at some point we'll be reading about these fights taking place somewhere far away in Germany. Well ... something is delaying this repulse. It's postponed and delayed, and in a few days we're mobilized to do some construction work for defence. First we were digging anti-tank trenches, and very suddenly an evacuation was announced."2 This is what millions felt in June and July of 1941. From the Soviet point of view, World War Two was a "just war"; and no matter how oxymoronic this phrase is, the truth is that the Soviets did not start the Second Patriotic War, as it is called in Russian. 3 As a result, the official language of indignation against the aggressors was strong in its sense of right: the population was behind the government. The perpetual atrocities committed by the Soviet government against its own peoples were played down compared to fascist acts of violence against the peoples of the Soviet Union. The cruelty of the aggressors not only increased the resistance of the nations but also helped Stalin's government rule its empire by evoking feelings of nationalism and patriotism. At that time everyone conveniently forgot that the Soviet Union itself had been involved in aggression just over a year earlier, when the Soviet Union had started a violent war against Finland, in which the Soviets used Finland as a testing ground for their weapons. Although the Soviet Union did not win the war with Finland - in fact, based on the losses, one can only assume that the war was a complete disaster - their propaganda was exceptionally optimistic about Soviet military might. Bykaii was as brainwashed as any other citizen in his country, and considering his age, probably even more so: in the beginning, the teenager's romantic ideas about the chivalry of war must have prevailed over common sense. In our last interview, when I asked Bykau about the fascist aggression, he gave a rather sober account of the first days. Indeed, despite the official propaganda's optimistic prognosis for a speedy end to the war and the unbeatable might of the Red Army, this same army was crushed on every single front for the first year and a half. It hardly seems to matter that sixty years have passed since then; Bykaii narrates the events as if everything had happened only recently, although his evaluation has gone through an evolution and a re-examination of those years, and has sloughed off whatever romantic notions he once had. In the following part of our last interview, Bykau's memories of the first days of the war

35 Youth and Military Service

continued to cover his difficult military apprenticeship, his military career, and a few post-war years of professional uncertainty: VB: Back then all the loudspeakers were noisily proclaiming, "The enemy will be destroyed soon! Victory will be ours!" In addition, imagine, they used their usual trash: "Hitler started the aggression, but the working class, in solidarity with the people of the Soviet Union, will soon throw down this Hitler and his soldiers will turn their bayonets against him." While they were saying this, we were in the midst of occupation. Later the Germans invaded Homel [Gomel] and started to approach Carnihau [Chernigov]. Pretty soon all of us were simply drafted through the vaenkamat [military committee]; we were grouped under the commandos, the officers, and we were rushed toward the East. These marches continued from August through the first half of December. There were some breaks. Not far from Harkau [Khar'kov] we were halted. There we were mobilized, clothed, but not armed; our groups were marched once again as a reserve toward the East. We went like that by foot, you see, all the way to Varonez [Voronezh], even further on. At the train station called Hradzi [Gradzi], we became subject to enlistment once again. In other words, it appeared that those who had been born in 192.3 were officially drafted in the Soviet Union, but those born in 192,4 hadn't been yet. So the 192,3 group was directed straight to the army, but we were spared ... our group was given two loaves of bread each and they dispersed us. ZG: And where did you go? VB: We weren't given any directions ... Wherever we wanted to, I suppose. They wouldn't take us into the army yet. Very soon, however, another order must have been issued; because we were once again formed into groups, and this time marched toward the West. In the middle of December we were brought to the Saratau [Saratov] district. As soon as we arrived at Saratau, we were given a different status: "evacuated." Young people were separated from the rest of the soldiers and Leska Arlou, who was a friend, and I were sent to a collective farm called Comintern. We worked on this farm during the winter of 1941 through the beginning of 1941. Soon, however, we were drafted once again. Leska and I were separated. He was sent to Bransk [Briansk], and I went to a reserve near Saratau. Soon afterwards I became a student at the Saratau military college. I studied there for a full year. ZG: Nowadays, despite the available literature, it is difficult to

36 Vasil Bykau

imagine the harshness of studying in a Soviet military institution during the war. VB: It was a very difficult period in my life: classes were ten hours daily; after that, all kinds of work and military duties were assigned. Mainly we dug trenches and worked at the aircraft factory, which the Germans bombed every single night. When a bomb damaged a shop, and often started a fire, we had to perform several tasks simultaneously; the most difficult was to take planes from burning or damaged shops. A lot of my friends perished there. Most of the losses, however, were at the oil refinery, where we also worked frequently. It, too, was bombed every single night. And it burned like hell. You know how oil burns? It seemed that the smoke was everywhere. One couldn't see anything beyond two paces. Oil was always spilled and burning, and my classmates burned to death in it. At night we were on duty, and before classes we buried the dead. ZG: You worked for ten hours and you studied for as many hours. And for an hour or so you took care of your dead friends. When did you sleep? VB: We almost didn't, and no one among our school and military bosses cared. ZG. Were you well equipped? VB: No, we were not. That winter we had American summer shoes with very thin soles. I still can't imagine how we survived that winter wearing them. Of course, we used all kinds of shmattes [old rags] to keep warm. ZG: Did you at least have enough food? VB: Of course we didn't. We were hungry all the time. We were young, we worked mostly in the open air, we didn't have time to sleep, and in addition we were always hungry. ZG: You must have dreamed of Hell: at least it would be warm. Did many of you fall sick? VB: We were cold and hungry, but miraculously, rarely sick. I was never sick. Sickness would have been like a reward in those conditions. This misery continued for approximately fourteen months. Bykaii has never described this period of his life in his writings about the war. Although the Soviets never cared much about their human resources (knowing that there were always plenty), it was not a theme that they would allow. And today, when human life is worth a bit more, at least officially, who would ever believe the excruciating nightmare of that military school, and the harsh reality of the conditions that Bykau and his contemporaries had to live through?

37 Youth and Military Service

During the course of the interview, I asked the author what happened to him and his schoolmates after their graduation: "After graduation we were awarded the military rank of junior lieutenant and sent to the front. My assignment started in the Dniapro [Dnepr] region in Ukraine, near Kremencuh [Kremenchug]. I joined a shooting battalion and I fought with my detachment until Christmas of 1944. Then, near Kiravahrad [Kirovograd], I was wounded and went to a hospital in Alexandria [Aleksandria]. After the hospital I returned to the front in Ukraine, Moldavia, and Romania." The reader may notice that Bykau's mode of expression became neutral, even dispassionate, when he described those days; he provided minimal personal data. It occurred to me while I was listening to him that, in a subtle way, Bykau reinforced in this conversation the central message of his art: that there is no glory in war. Among civilized nations nowadays, at least in peacetime, this Tolstoyan notion is almost axiomatic. While immediately after the war and until just before perestroika such an attitude was revolutionary for the Soviets, Vasil Bykau continued to develop it in his work. ZG: Did you have a chance to fight for Belarus during the German occupation? VB: No, not Belarus: the army I belonged to was stationed in Hungary. The most intense and hostile combat for me personally took place in Hungary. Our division was destroyed there. I was wounded once more; this time it was not as severe a wound as the first. After I left the hospital, I was transferred to another detachment, and I finished the war in Austria. It was 1945. Well, in Styria, Austria, we met the Americans. The township was called Rottenmann. The first night of that meeting was jolly and festive: to tell you the truth, both sides were happily drunk. The very next day we were separated. We were stationed on opposite sides of the river, so neither of us could reach each other. ZG: Is it true that a lot of people were senselessly killed during the last days of the war in Austria? VB: Very much so; futile as any war butchery is, there were too many accidents during the last moments of war. We had a lot of local encounters with the enemy: small but cruel fights, with many victims on both sides. I myself almost got captured. ZG: How did it happen? VB: I had malaria. It isn't possible to understand or anticipate attacks of malaria, you know. One moment everything's fine; the next, when the attack comes, a person becomes chilled to the bone. At that moment one is ready to do anything to warm up a little bit. I didn't have

38 Vasil Bykau

these attacks often, but one occurred during the last night of the war. My cannon battery was located on a little hill surrounded by small bushes. As soon as I felt the fever of the malaria, I lay down under a bush and my soldiers covered me with as many military coats, pieces of rug, and so on, as they could find. Finally I became warmer and, of course, I fell asleep. I woke up at sunset; it was getting darker every moment, but the strangest thing was that I was alone. I pulled away part of the clothes and rugs I was covered with, and at first I couldn't understand it: here, twenty steps away, were supposed to be my cannon battery, but the entire place was deserted. However, nearby I heard the Germans, and one of them was looking with interest in my direction. I covered myself again and tried not to move. He was called by his comrades and went in the other direction. At night I found the way to my detachment. ZG: Your people must have been tired as hell to leave you there alone. VB: Of course: they received an order to move the detachment immediately and, being without proper sleep and food themselves, did what they were ordered to mechanically, like zombies, without remembering me. Besides, those who helped me under the bush had been sent off earlier to do some business at the rear. Anyway, this was when Germany had already capitulated, and the war had officially ended. In actuality, we hadn't met the Americans at that moment, and isolated German detachments didn't believe that the war was over. Our military commanders took all available auto transport and hurried toward the Americans; we were ordered to move on foot in the same direction. And we went, not in a very orderly fashion, though we moved as fast as we could, and rather often met with German detachments. Austrian civilians were quite friendly: white sheets were hanging from the windows all along the way. Sometimes they threw flowers at us; and once, instead of flowers, it was candies - you know, we called these caramels "little pillows." Do you know the kind? ZG: Of course I do. Those are the candies of my childhood. My father's orderly, Kolia, his comrade-in-arms, always brought "little pillows" for my sister and me when he visited. VB: I remember the taste of those caramels even now. I still like those candies, maybe because in my childhood we rarely had sweets, and during the war they were rare in our diet. [A phone call from Italy interrupted our interview, and afterwards we briefly discussed the call. Iryna Michajlauna, Bykau's second wife, joined us for a short while. She mentioned that the Italians love her husband's

39 Youth and Military Service

prose, a popularity that began with Alpine Ballad. Bykau has been awarded many honours in Italy, the last being the Order of St. Valentine. Besides such official recognition, the couple had many personal friends in Italy. Bykau elaborates on the topic:] VB: The phone call was from a friend who's always inviting us to Italy. Besides her, we have a family friend, Giorgio Bergamini, who used to visit us frequently in Miensk; we're as close to him as if we were blood relatives. For many years he and his family have invited us to visit them on the Adriatic. But Iryna did not have travel documents for a long time; as you know, getting documents in Belarus can be a problem. I had visited Italy many times; I didn't want to go again without Iryna. Later on, our fate brought us to Finland. Our Italian friends took our decision to go to Finland instead of Italy personally, and they still reproach us for that. When we moved to Germany, they took it even harder. Just now I declined another invitation from Italy. You see, I feel an urge to work as much as I can, and all these trips conflict with my work. And my friends, who are tolerant and kind, will understand this, I hope. The truth of the matter is that although I appreciate the generous hospitality Iryna and I receive everywhere, the only place we really need is home. ZG: When do you think you will return to Belarus? VB: Hopefully this year; it depends on the elections. ZG: Yes, of course ... Vasil Uladzimiravic, we did not finish talking about your last days of the war. VB: Yes, that's right. Let's go back ... Although I finished out the war in Austria, two weeks later my unit was transferred to Bulgaria. I spent a year in Sofia, from the middle of 1945 to tne middle of 1946. This was a brotherly nation that honoured us endlessly. There was euphoria at the time between the Bulgarians and us. However, many years later when I came to Bulgaria for a visit, Bulgarian writers told me a joke: Children come to visit a grandfather who is working in the vineyard. They surround him, an old crooked peasant working the land, with joyful screams: "Grandfather, grandfather, the Russians went to the moon!" The grandfather straightens up his old aching back, crosses himself and says: "Thank God! Did all of them go?" ZG: I have a similar one. A Russian and a Bulgarian find themselves in a desert. They have only one apple left. The Russian offers to share it, as brothers should. The Bulgarian immediately retorts: "No, it's better if we divide this last apple half and half, equally." VB: Yes, a rather typical example of "peoples' friendship" under the

40 Vasil Bykau

Soviets. One can tell a lot about our relations with other nations using Bulgaria as an example. Coming back to that year after the war, I should mention that we were pretty well fed over there, though the country was rather badly ruined, as the rest of that part of Europe was. All of us, of course, were yearning for home. ZG: When did you get your first news from home? VB: I got my first letter from home in 1944, when we were stationed in Moldova. At that time we were preparing the operation called Bahracijon [Bahration]: in other words, the liberation of Belarus. My area of Belarus, Polatcyna, had not been liberated thus far. Our army was helping that operation by breaking through the German defence in Romania. During that time I wrote a letter. You know, one can't anticipate anything during a war; I never expected that this letter would ever reach my home. But somehow, about two months later, it did. Imagine, an official mail service did not operate there yet, but somehow my mother received the letter. A week earlier, however, before that letter came, my family had received an official notification of my death from the unit I was serving in when I received my last wound. This death certificate stated that I had been killed and buried in the Kiravahrad [Kirovograd] area, in a village called Balsaja [Bol'shaia], Of course, they were all in mourning for me when they got my letter. Then they compared the dates and realized that I was alive. My parents, as well as my brother and sister, were tremendously shocked by the news, especially my parents. I think my mother never got over it. ZG. Now it's almost two years later, 1946. You, like many others, are longing for home. VB: Yes, we all felt like inmates, with a desire only to go home. But the army wouldn't let us go yet and people of my age were mostly detained. My unit was dissolved, but I was sent to another detachment near Odessa, to a little station called Kudyma. That unit was also about to be disbanded, so I spent about two months there hoping to be demobilized. Instead I was send to Nikalajeu [Nikolaev]. There I served until the spring of 1947. In the beginning of May, finally, came the order for demobilization. I rushed home. ZG: You hadn't seen your family for seven years. VB: Yes, about that long ... I stayed at home for a while. Life was very harsh for people in the area where my parents lived. As with our neighbours, there was no bread or milk in the house. You know, we all belonged to the collective farm, and it's well known how people lived there after the war. My sister was working as an accountant in

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western Belarus; my younger brother, who was sixteen at the time, was working with my parents at the collective farm after school. I wanted to continue my education. The art college in Viciebsk didn't exist any more, and Viciebsk itself was completely ruined. So I went to Miensk. It turned out that the former director of the art college in Viciebsk, Achremcyk, held the chair of the Artists' Union. At the time, Miensk was completely destroyed, you know; even the railway station didn't exist. The trains, upon arriving at Miensk, stopped in different places. With some difficulty, I found the ruined building where the Artists' Union was located. Achremcyk was straight with me. The government was discussing the possibility of reconstructing the art college in Viciebsk, but the prospects were slim. It was also nearly impossible to find a place to live in Miensk. He advised me to try western Belarus, in particular, Harodnia [Hrodna, Grodno], He said that there was a good artistic community there, and life seemed to be a bit easier than in eastern Belarus. Most of them, he emphasized, were people like myself, who had just come back from the army. Among others he named persons I knew: MarozauV Puskou,5 Savicky.6 ZG: The infamous Savicky? VB: No, his elder cousin, a rather nice fellow. So, I followed Achremcyk's advice. First, I worked at the Artist's Shop. There wasn't much work, and not much money to be made. And artists back home, as you know, are in constant need of a lot of money to buy alcohol, so life was not exactly as most of us had pictured it would be right after the war. Anyway, pretty soon alcohol became a problem for me. I had never been involved in drinking before, but you know, professional pressures ... The insistence of friends and colleagues was strong, and little by little, like everyone around me, I developed a need to drink. I remember that we would often start to search for alcohol early in the morning. There was no money? So what? Somebody will have something. Nobody has a penny? Not a problem. You could always find some softhearted barmaid who would give you a drink on credit. By the end of 1947,1 realized that I couldn't continue this way of life. Once I saw an advertisement that one of the Belarusan local newspapers was looking for a proofreader. So off I went. A secretary, a middle-aged woman called Anna Il'inicna Cypina, told me to fill out an application form. I did, and apparently she used it as a grammar test: after all, I'd informed her that I hadn't been living in Belarus, and therefore for more than seven years I had not even heard my native tongue, so she was trying to ascertain the quality of my Belarusan.

42 Vasil Bykau

However, I have to add here that I always knew Belarusan well, and not just because we spoke it at home. While I was in school, we had a teacher by the name of Andrej Dem'ianavic Kurcanka. He was an invalid, lame and extremely strict: God forbid you should come to his classes unprepared. I was so fearful of his anger that I would never have dared evoke a negative reaction from him. Since I loved to read books in Belarusan, and he knew it, I enjoyed his favour. Moreover, our teacher's knowledge of the Belarusan language and its literature was impeccable, and he tried very hard to pass it on to his students. I am personally indebted to him. Thanks to this teacher, my work as a proofreader wasn't a challenge. True, I didn't occupy that position for long; pretty soon I was appointed as an editor and continued to work in that capacity for about a year and a half. One summer day, however, out of the blue, I received a notice from the district military registration and enlistment office. They summoned me for military service for a period of three months as a reservist at the rank of lieutenant. During those three months we took classes and had military exercises. Most of the people who were summoned were like me: former soldiers of the recent war. Many of them were tired, and didn't care about either classes or exercises. I wouldn't say that I liked it much myself, but in my life, whenever I have had to study anything, I always took it seriously. Even back in artillery school during the war I graduated with honours. I stayed there till the fall. As soon as I got back home, I received an order to appear in person at the district military registration and enlistment office again. Off I went. They gave me a paper to read: it was an order signed by the minister of Defence of the USSR. I had to go back to the army. I was given only three days to clear up at work, and on the fourth day I had to arrive for military service in the city of Slonim. ZG: There was no way, of course, that you could appeal or refuse? VB: Of course not. This was how my second tour of duty started. ZG. What about your personal life? Were you still unmarried at the time? VB. No, I was married to my first wife. Her name was Nadzia, Nadzeja [Hope], Nadzezda Andrejeuna, and she came from the same area as myself. So on the fourth day I arrived at the military division near Slonim. As usual, there was no place to live: not a single room available. My wife stayed behind in Harodnia. I rented a corner of a room from an old woman. During the winter there were military field exercises that went non-stop. Once again, I was cold all the time: in the field, as well as in my little corner of the room. The chill never left

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my bones. Sometimes I didn't even get undressed at home. Spring, however, came suddenly. I remember that by the first of May everything was blooming that year. [Our talk was interrupted once again by a phone call from Belarus, in which Vasil Uladzimiravic was "informed" that the Belarusan media was discussing the case of his nephew. The matter concerned his nephew's involvement in a criminal affair that was supposedly connected to the son of Mikhail Cyhir (at one time the leader of Lukasenka's opposition). In reality, Bykau has no nephew, and this story was a typical government ploy to blacken the writer's name. The best thing the government could think of, as a next step, was to accuse Bykau himself in the same affair (which had to do with selling used cars and spare parts in Belarus). These slanderers were not shamed by the fact that the writer had been out of the country for over two years. Bykau told me that he had become used to all kinds of outrageous lies from the Belarusan government. He did not accept my suggestion that the more outrageous and less believable the lies are, the better, that people will no longer trust a government that deals in such patent falsehood. His experience had been different: the masses will think that even if the information they receive is false, there must be something to it. We changed the topic and continued with the interview.] ZG: And what happened next? VB. A new order came. It was an order for me to transfer to the East, first to Uladzivastok [Vladivostok]. Nadzezda Andrejeuna, my wife, joined me. The next transfer was to the northern point of the Kurile Islands, close to Japan's Hokkaido. It was pretty miserable there as well. The Korean War had just started, and we were moved from our little settlement straight to the oceanfront. Our task was to organize a defence on that shore. We lived on these savage shores for three years; we were in those dreadful trenches practically all the time. ZG: Did anything good happen to you on the Kurile Islands? VB. Definitely. My first son was born there in the winter of 1952.. Soon after his birth, I was sent to Sakhalin to continue my education. I studied for nine months while my wife and my baby stayed behind. Oh, my God ... now it is hard to imagine all the horrid things during those years. I don't know what was worse: the dreadful climate, the constant fires, or the earthquakes. ZG: What did you have to do in order to leave the service? VB: Though that was my only dream at the time, the only thing I could

44 Vasil Bykau

do was write reports with requests to leave the army. You can't imagine how many reports and applications I wrote asking for my dismissal. No response came for a long time. Once I even wrote a letter to the minister of Defence, marshal Malinouski [Malinovsky]. He was also a deputy of the Supreme Soviet of the Far East. I wasn't allowed to write to a marshal of the USSR, but in his capacity as deputy I could do so. Almost immediately I got a call from the headquarters of my division. It was during the winter. We were located at the time in a small township, surrounded by forest. They asked me to come to the headquarters at once. I had to go five kilometres on foot through the forest to the district centre. That day we had a snowstorm: frozen wind was blowing straight into my face and a chill went through every single bone in my body. I was going along the railway tracks with only one thought warming my heart: that they might have an order for my dismissal. As soon as I reported in, I was questioned: "Did you write to the marshal of the Soviet Union, comrade Malinouski?" "Yes, sir, I did, sir," was my answer. "Well, here is the reply." The response was addressed to my general. The marshal ordered him to call senior lieutenant Bykau and explain to him the following: "Service in the Red Army is the sacred duty of every citizen of the USSR." Finally, in 1955, I was replaced by another poor soul. I returned to Belarus, to a small township called Asipovicy, near Babrujsk, on the riverbank of the Berezina. They had an ugly army barracks on the riverbanks. I rented an apartment in a nearby village, got a week of holidays - which I used to visit my parents - and as soon as I came back, I received another call from headquarters, which informed me of my long-awaited demobilization. Great news! Finally! I returned to Harodnia; where else could I go? I wanted to work for the newspaper I was forced to leave five years earlier. They hired me back, but some problems developed rather quickly. I didn't want to serve in the army, but neither did I want to become a party member, as they wanted me to. Once I had matured, I never had any desire to join the party, first of all because this membership means absolute slavery: a Communist Party member cannot refuse the party's will. ZG: How did you manage to avoid membership after being in the army for almost twelve years? I've heard it was next to impossible. VB: There were occasions in my life when I almost joined the party, but I was lucky and it never worked out. The first time was when I was stationed in Sofia. There I was elected military unit head for the Komsomol [Young Communists' League]. You must understand that I got tired of all this political stuff during the war, but when you're in

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the army, you do not refuse. Anyway, the moment I was appointed chairperson of the Komsomol organization, my documents were passed on and were considered for Communist Party membership. It was natural for the political process at the time: the chief of the Komsomol also had to be a communist. Life wasn't bad for the officers in the army in Sofia; we had an officer's club and we frequented restaurants. Once there was a telling incident in my unit: we were supposed to get our salary on the fifteenth of the month. It turned out that the fifteenth was a Sunday. As usual on Sunday, my friends and I went to a restaurant and we didn't have enough money to pay for our orders. So, my friends asked me about the membership money that I, as chair, collected every month. They promised to reimburse me next day, as soon as the salary came, and we continued with our little supper. The eight of us had quite a good time. The next day was Monday, and first thing in the morning, I received a call from the head of the political department. What the devil? I thought to myself, but went off. The political officer started a roundabout conversation, but rather soon he asked me to bring the membership money to him right away. ZG. So you had an informer among your company. VB. Apparently we did. Naturally I lost my Komsomol position, and subsequently the party membership. The second time was in Nikalajeu. I had all the paperwork done there, but fortunately, our division was dispersed. After that I resisted anyone who approached me with an initiative to join the Communist Party. I dreamed of leaving the army, you know; and when you don't want to serve, problems with the higher-ups appear out of the blue. In the end, I wasn't encouraged in my later army service to join the Communist Party. For me it turned out for the best; who knows what my fate would have been otherwise? I am sure I wouldn't have been able to pursue my vocation in life, writing, if I had become a party member. Anyway, back in Harodnia I became a stylistic editor once again and soon started to write. First I explored the genre of satire, but I don't think I succeeded in it. Later I published my first little book and wrote my first novella. In 1959, I became a member of the Writers' Union. There, in Harodnia, my literary life started. I was exploring both poetry and prose, though I felt more at home with the latter. At that time, publishing in Belarusan was not a problem. My work won several awards. Writing ... I love writing. I feel comfortable expressing myself through it. Despite the upheavals in my life, similar to those experienced by many people of my generation, I think I am lucky, and my literary fate has been good.

46 Vasil Bykau

Writing became a way of life for Vasil Bykaii. Despite the fact that he was often asked, Bykau never wanted to write an autobiography, and gave in to many requests only at the end of 2.002, with his Douhaja daroha dadomu (A Long Way Home). A Long Way Home sold out overnight and became a bestseller. Before writing his final book, Vasil Bykau had always stated: "My biography is in my books." So, let's follow the author's suggestion and look at his writings in the following chapters.

Sketch by Vasil Byka Bykau, 2,ooz. The Cyrillic lettering below, in Bykau's hand, says: The house where I was born.

Sketch by Vasil Bykau, 2003. The Cyrillic lettering below, in Bykau's hand, says: The church at Kublicy.

Sketch by Vasil Bykau, zoo3. The Cyrillic lettering below, in Bykau's hand, says: My primary school in Dvorslabodka.

"Vasilok" Bykau, with his teacher and schoolmates, 1931(?). Bykau seated at far right.

Lieutenant Vasil Bykau, 1945.

Bykau (centre) with his infantrymen, 1944.

Bykau's closest kin, 1977. From left to right: Antanina (sister-in-law), Mikola (brother), Valancina (sister), Uladzimir (father), and Hanna (mother).

CHAPTER

THREE

Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

We were privates and lieutenants and our experience of the military was merely theoretical: whatever we learned, we learned on the battlefield. Vasil Bykau, Loyalty to Memory

It is difficult to establish who, among Soviet critics, first gave the name "lieutenants' prose" to the rich deposit of post-war literature. For many years this sub-genre was a target of negative Soviet literary criticism, which stated that lieutenants' prose was lacking in veracity, because it could not reflect the war in its uniqueness, its totality, and its variety. In particular, the critics claimed that these former lieutenants, although they had participated in military actions, knew nothing of the ambitious plans and wider events known only to the military chiefs. As far back as 1973, Igor Kuz'michev expressed this belief when he claimed that Bykau "walks the reader along the periphery of war events,"1 because he looks at events from a very narrow point of view. Igor Dedkov, however, thinks differently: "Lieutenants' prose, as it is often called, grew greater with a conscience founded on the plain experience of suffering, which assumed that any pompous and celebratory phrase about the war is morally unacceptable and artistically bankrupt."2- Indeed, says Dedkov, coming to a conclusion about the essence of any war: "War always stays the same; it does not matter whether a man is defending his home or is on his way to destroy and loot the homes of others - he has to kill, and takes the risk of being killed. And if other wars have not killed so many, according to our modern understanding, this happened not out of restraint, or because people did not want to kill any more, but simply because they could not: their weapons were not sophisticated enough. "3 Lieutenants' prose was based on the personal experiences of veterans of World War Two, and the best of the writers who gained popularity

48 Vasil Bykau

in this genre wrote without glorifying war. By 1965 there were more than twenty Soviet writers who associated themselves with battlefield literature. The most enduring of these writers include: Anatolii Anan'ev (b. 192,5), Victor Astaf'ev (1924-2001), Grigorii Baklanov (b. 1923), Aleksandr Bek (1903-1972), Olga Berggol'ts (1870-1975), Georgii Berezko (1905-1982), Anver Bikchentaev (1913-1992), Vladimir Bogomolov (b. 1926), lurii Bondarev (b. 1924), Vasil Bykaii (1924-2003), Anatolii Kalinin (1916-1993), Sergei Narovchatov (1919-1961), Afanasii Salynskii (b. 1920), Dmitrii Samoilov (b. 1920), Konstantin Simonov (1915-1979), and Sergei Smirnov (1913-1994). All of these writers are still popular, and their works continue to be important for later generations who learn about the nature of the Second Patriotic War through their books. Over fifty years later, however, only Vasil Bykau was still travelling this road in military prose, and he continued to stand tall in the genre despite his successful exploration of other themes and genres in his later literary works. As we have noted, Vasil Bykau did not take the literary world by storm.4 He was released from the army only in 1955; that fall he became a journalist and an editor with the newspaper Hrodnenskaja prauda. In their early criticism, Shagalov, Lazarev, and even Dedkov appear to have followed Buran's notion that Bykau simply deepened his primary ideas and experiences with time. Dedkov (1990), considering Bykau's genres, came to a position, shared to a certain extent by McMillin and recently taken up in part by Lazarev: "Now it is well understood that the choice was made with the novel Zurauliny cryk (The cry of the crane, 1959). Short stories remained only as an auxiliary genre. Starting with this novel, Bykaii will examine his world through the novel and the novella. It will turn out that this is the most suitable element for his artistic thought. "5 Vasil Bykau's most recent writings in different genres, primarily short stories and parables, have proved this initial pronouncement by his literary critics to be wrong: this writer excels in any genre he chooses. In the earlier parts of his career, however, it did seem that Dedkov and other critics were correct in their assessment, i.e., that Bykau is a battlefield writer, who "will think through the novel and the novella." Bykau's first attempts at writing fiction took place as early as 1947, while he was still in military service. He was not satisfied with his first short stories and worked constantly to improve his writing in Belarusan. Zurauliny cryk brought immediate recognition to the author when it was first published in Belarusan, but mass popularity came only in 1962, with the appearance of Treciaja rakieta (The third flare) in Russian.6 What drove Bykau then, and what continued to motivate him to write about a

49 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

war of three generations ago, was a feeling of complete dissatisfaction with everything that has been written about it earlier. Bykau was utterly disheartened, even disgusted, by the cartoon-like, party-line battlefield stories written immediately after the war, often by people who had not experienced the war first-hand. Later he explained the reason why this theme continues to be so vital for him: "Neither history nor literature has yet fully reflected on the cost of our victory. It seems that so far we do not have a writer who would be able to bring from the depths of the past all the magnitude of people's sufferings. I think sometimes that up to now mankind has not completely realized the losses and gains of the last war, as well as the price paid for it."7 These words remind the reader of a monologue by Prince Andrew in War and Peace, in which Tolstoy's protagonist condemns war: War is not amiability, but it is the most hateful thing in the world, and it is necessary to understand it so and not to play at war. It is necessary to take this frightful necessity sternly and seriously ... But what is war, and what is necessary for its success, and what are the laws of military society? The end and aim of war is murder; the weapons of war are espionage, and treachery and the encouragement of treachery, the ruin of the inhabitants, and pillage and robbery of their possessions for the maintenance of the troops, deception and lies, which pass under the name of finesse.8

Tolstoy, however, could not have foreseen the horrendous toll of casualties that future wars would amass. Two hundred thousand victims of the First Patriotic War, much as their families and country mourned their absence in the nineteenth century, cannot be compared to an estimated fifteen to twenty-nine million lives lost during the Second World War (Bykau believed it was well over twenty million). An estimated third of the Belarusan population at the time is an enormous part of this terrible number. ? These historically unprecedented losses are among the factors that continued to compel Bykau to write. Igor' Dedkov, in his comprehensive critical study of Bykau's literary life, demonstrates that Bykau's need to bring humanity to an understanding of the last war has intensified with time. Despite his apparent understanding that each of Bykau's literary works is extremely biographical, Dedkov (as with other scholars) has failed to note how deeply the "national idea" is embedded in Bykau's military prose. Every single main protagonist in Bykau's lieutenants' prose is of Belarusan origin. This notion brings us to the question of how Bykau's national idea was formulated, and how it has been expressed in his literary art.

50 Vasil Bykau

Bykau's National Idea: "Belarusanness" and Its Origin

In an interview in 1995, Bykau linked his understanding of the national idea of "Belarusanness" with the notion of statehood.10 In his opinion, the national idea is the foremost prerequisite for the formation and existence of any free nation: Belarusanness is an imperceptible feeling. But to be serious about it, the first and most important thing that makes Belarusanness is statehood. Our long history taught us that a national idea - what you call Belarusanness - couldn't come to life without statehood, sovereignty, and independence. Unfortunately, not everyone among us understands it this way. Our nation apparently does not understand, and thinks that it may achieve this national essence and implement national ideas within a framework of dependency, and without democracy. This - again from historical experience - proves to be absolutely impossible. It is an idee fixe, and makes a complete fiasco of all national hopes. I have in mind the earlier, traditional, dependent existence of Belarus.11

There may be many physiognomic similarities among Slavs, but if they communicate in Russian, their accents almost immediately reveal their true national origin. Belarus, in these terms, occupies a special place among the nations who "cry for their homes." In the Soviet era, generation after generation of Belarusans were formally educated mainly in Russian (and before 1917, some in Polish); the population, however, maintained a distinguishable Belarusan accent. As a result, most of the population speaks a tongue labelled trasianka, which means something like "an unbalanced and shaky phonetic hybrid of two languages." For Bykau (who was completely bilingual, although he wrote his literary works exclusively in Belarusan), this phenomenon was a constant source of pain. He and other carriers and developers of the Belarusan national idea considered the linguistic insufficiency of Belarusans to be a sign and a consequence of enslavement. This problem, according to the writer, is not soluble without the establishment of a strong and democratic national statehood. During one of our interviews, while recollecting the sad pages of Belarusan history, Bykaii stopped to consider its highlights, when a national awakening has taken place.12 In the twentieth century this has happened twice: first when Belarus was declared a free and independent state right after the Revolution, and again at the beginning of the I99os:x3

51 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

The process of national awakening was relaxed in connection with the First World War and flared up again with the formation of the BSSR in the early twenties. At that time national awakening was very strong, but it was also very short. Stalin's government not only stopped this process but also made sure that the participants in this movement were destroyed. Now, there is a new wave of national renaissance, starting in 1991 in connection with the declaration of Belarus as an independent state. This is the moment that showed some national movement, which could be compared with Adam Mickiewicz's approach towards national freedom. By this I mean a free and democratic national statehood that could never exist under any empire.^

Bykau personally recognizes Adam Mickiewicz's influence on the development of the national idea in Eastern Europe. He is also conscious, however, of the purely Belarusan avenues (language and self-determination) that marked and channelled Mickiewicz's influence. A short period at the end of the nineteenth century is significant for the creation of the Belarusan national idea, and for Mickiewicz's influence on it.15 The Belarusan upper class and clergy of that time were educated either in Russian or Polish; Belarusan was for them as secondary as it was for Mickiewicz. Jan Barsceuski (1794-1851) and his Petersburg circle are not only exceptions to that situation but are also directly linked with Mickiewicz's influence on Belarusan literature and the establishment of the Belarusan national idea.16 A few Belarusans born between 1840 and 1890, such as Francisak Bahusevic (i84o-i9oo) J 7 and Maksim Bahdanovic (1891-1917),l8 unwaveringly identified themselves with their people in that period. These writers not only considered themselves Belarusans but also used the Belarusan language to promote their personal Belarusanness nationwide, a process that started in the i86os and continued throughout their lifetimes. The model for them, as it had been for an earlier generation, was Adam Mickiewicz, who, according to Lechori, "Gave expression to spiritual forces which were first awakened, perhaps even created by him, and thus mapped out for his people the paths of their spiritual future."1? In one of our interviews, Bykau made the following statement: "First of all I should say that as a writer I am a realist. My prose is always about real facts of being, and it is entirely dependent on and linked to public and national life."zo This consideration alone connects Bykau more with Bahusevic and Bahdanovic than with Mickiewicz. Despite the influence of the romantic aspects of Mickiewicz's national idea, these Belarusan

52 Vasil Bykau

writers were adherents of the literary movement of their time, Realism; they did not share Mickiewicz's great interest in the supernatural, visions, and prophecies, or his obvious preference for heart over mind. The necessity of statehood for the creation of a nationality, however, was the core principle of the national idea that came directly from Adam Mickiewicz. While Bykau utilized the experiences and findings of his forerunners, from the mid-i^Sos he concentrated on developing his own vision of a modern Belarusan national idea. Thomas E. Bird, commenting on Bykau's innovations, concludes: "His oeuvre is concerned with analyzing morality when set against the brutality of war. He explores the conflict between goals and the price to be paid in terms of human lives and suffering. He questions what is reasonable and what is not in this existential equation. His value system rests on a profound humanism, lying beyond national loyalties and ideological antagonisms."21 One might note here another typical feature in Bykau's novels, short novels, and stories that take place outside Belarus: there is only one single negative character of Belarusan origin in them - Bliscynski in Zdrada (Treachery). In his works set in Belarus, however, Bykau's characters show every possible nuance of human character; their Belarusanness is not a litmus test for their humanity, as it often is in the plots of his earlier works. What is Belarusanness for Bykau? First of all, it is more than just writing in Belarusan. For him as a writer, besides the binding component of statehood, it is an emotional, barely perceptible feeling that brings together a complex of circumstances: National belonging has an element of spontaneity. This is an element that everyone carries in his genes. Just being born signifies national belonging. First, the place of birth is very important. Second, the culture is equally important. For me all of this was Belarusan, place of birth, culture, and, somehow, education. During and after the war, I did not live in Belarus and did not have much contact with Belarusanness, but I always had feelings towards my Motherland, even when I did not appear one hundred per cent Belarusan. During the war, when Belarus was under occupation, I was first touched by news from there and by memories. Simple things, such as childhood dreams, are always connected with something in the past that, in its turn, is connected with the Motherland.22

Indeed, the notion of Belarusanness is blended so artfully with an awareness of solidarity with the other nations of the former Soviet Union, which also fought in the war and shared the same goals, that it is

53 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

at first hardly noticeable. While analyzing this synthesis, however, the attentive reader should not overlook the fact noted earlier: there is not a single plot in Bykau's battle stories without a Belarusan protagonist. Like Hlecyk in Zurauliny cryk, this figure might not at first be identified as the main character; as the plot develops, however, the Belarusan character becomes the leading figure of the work. Another detail repeatedly encountered in Bykau's plots is that his Belarusan protagonist, who stands firmly against all odds, is either the last to perish or the only one to survive a battle. Let us now turn to the first volume of his collected works, where the elements of Belarusanness, statehood, patriotism, and morality are fully expressed in lieutenants' prose.

Bykau's Beginnings in Lieutenants' and Infantry Prose The very first days of the war opened our eyes in great amazement. Never before had the contradiction between the real and the expected occurred so obviously ... Unwittingly, and with surprise, here and there, we witnessed how war tore down all the covers, and reality destroyed many habitual and preconceived beliefs. A phrasemonger would sometimes turn into a coward, and an undisciplined soldier would carry out a heroic deed. Vasil Bykau, Voprosy literatury

Zurauliny cryk (The cry of the crane, 1959)

Starting with Zurauliny cryk, Bykau's emotional memory never ceased producing and analyzing those impressions of the first days of war. These feelings turned into a commitment to his generation, to the generation before his, and to generations to come: he determined to tell the truth, and by doing so, Bykau tried to keep pure the memory of those who could not defend themselves from the systematic brainwashing imposed by Soviet and post-Soviet governments. The Soviet regime, the closest to the writer in both time and culture, was notorious for replacing human values with its own ideology. Although Soviet ideological bankruptcy was fully exposed during the struggle against a similar regime, the Nazi Reich, the Soviets were fighting a patriotic war, and at the time could claim "just cause." The similar essence of the Soviet and Nazi regimes, however, is not always portrayed in Bykau's earlier works as vividly as

54 Vasil Bykau

the fact that war is the most tragic moment of human existence. Bykau often showed this fact by using the war as the central point of the events, connecting a number of circumstantially different episodes. Thus, the plot of Zurauliny cryk is a chain of such episodes, individualized by depicting the personalities of six participants. McMillin states: "His first novel, Zurauliny cryk ... is set in 1941 .and depicts a few hours in the life of an isolated group of soldiers who have been given an impossible task of defending a railway crossing to cover the retreat of a major section of the Soviet forces. By the end, five of the six have died, but in the course of the book Bykau characterizes each of them in turn, showing the effect on them of the war in general and the peril of their situation in particular - their mental and physical reaction. "23 Although the novel did not at first attract as much critical attention as Bykau's subsequent work, Treciaja rakieta (The third flare, 1961), Zurauliny cryk was later analyzed in exemplary fashion by many critics, including Lazarev, Dedkov, and McMillin. McMillin, for example, has made a thorough study of the novel's structure, plot, characters, and literary devices. He notes the novel's compartmentalized structure, in which each chapter focuses on a single character. The third-person narration is interpreted mainly through the emotions of a new recruit, a young Belarusan named Vasil Hlecyk, who initially appears to be a meek simpleton. Hlecyk turns into a protagonist who is not only the carrier of the author's moral concept but apparently also fulfils the writer's judgment. Old Karpenka, the sergeant major of this small detachment, first stigmatizes Hlecyk in the same way that he dismisses his other soldier, Fisar, the Jewish intellectual: both look nothing like Karpenka's idea of a soldier. Karpenka himself, despite his strict nature befitting an old and experienced soldier (he remembers well his service under the tsar during World War One), and his rough personality, lives long enough to realize and admit his mistake. Both Hlecyk and Fisar turn out to be loyal and dedicated servicemen. The two soldiers also earn Karpenka's respect in the very same assault in which he, who has dreamed that this war would be the last, loses his own life. Karpenka is also unsure about another recruit, the unstable hooligan Svist, but he changes his opinion about the young soldier. As McMillin comments, "The glamorous but weak-willed Svist is an interesting character whose colorful pre-war existence (recalled in conversation on the eve of battle) had consisted of a series of criminal escapades ending in a spell in a prison camp. The senseless death of this battled-reformed miscreant is made to seem particularly tragic, a symbol of the immense waste represented by each individual life lost in the war."24

55 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

McMillin also notes that each of the characters in the novel has a contrasting protagonist. This contrast is not necessarily a hero/anti-hero relationship; rather, it relies on differences in upbringing, education, and, as a result, social incompatibilities that stand in the way of people's tolerance and acceptance of each other in the novel. In T^urauliny cryk, for example, Karpenka and Fisar are such a contrasting pair. As it turns out, they develop a mutual admiration before their individual deaths. Beside the fact that every important character in the novel has a direct counterpart, each of the individuals is also contrasted with the others. Thus, Psanicny the traitor, a kulak's son who consciously chooses to betray his duties, is a counterpart to Svist, but he is also contrasted with every other character. Both Svist and Psanicny are socially challenged and hurt by the system, but Svist loses his life as a hero, while Psanicny wastes his life in a sad irony: he goes over to the enemy voluntarily, intending to surrender, but the Germans misunderstand Psanicny's intentions and shoot him. McMillin has also noted that although Psanicny is an appalling figure, Bykau tries to be fair even to him: "Very typically, [he] gives a twist by showing Psanicny's selfishness and alienation not as a product of his class upbringing but as a result of the ill-treatment and injustice he had received from Soviet society on account of his social origins. It is notable, however, that in Bykau's later books - all of which continue to explore the sources of heroism and treachery - he avoids all class considerations, feeling perhaps that even the treatment he gives to Psanicny in Zurauliny cryk, is slightly redolent of the very novels with which his own work is a direct polemic. "2s The sharpest contrast in the novel is that between Hlecyk and Ausiejeu, who is a typical representative of Soviet "golden" youth. Hlecyk, a peasant's son, a modest and fair romantic chap with a passionate love for his mother and nostalgic memories of his "ideal" childhood (as it seems to him on the eve of the battle), is a genuine opposite to Ausiejeu. Spoiled by everyone in his privileged life, starting with his parents, Ausiejeu believes that the world should be at his service, and considers his own life worth more than that of anyone else around him. When he and Hlecyk are left alone in the trenches, he decides to flee. Hlecyk, shaken by the traitor's behaviour, tries to stop him, but Ausiejeu, who thinks himself superior to Hlecyk, pays no heed. Hlecyk then stops him with his last round of machine-gun fire. And now he is alone, waiting for the enemy with one hand grenade at his disposal. His only support is in the sky, from which, like a melody of home, he hears cranes: "He understood that the end was coming, and he summoned all his strength to suppress the unbearable sadness of his

56 Vasil Bykau

soul, where far away, but with the greatest desire to live, the inviting call of the cranes was beating."2-6 Treciaja rakieta (The third flare, 1961) No doubt Bykau's adherence to the same type of protagonist has a hidden danger; and if the writer has been lucky enough to avoid this danger it has happened because, first, Bykau has aspired to more and deeper research of his character's inner world, which is simple and uncomplicated only on the surface; and second, through this personality some important features of this nation's war are revealed. Lazar' Lazarev, Vasil' Bykov

No matter how varied the reception of Treciaja rakieta was and still is in literary criticism, all individual reviewers agree on one point: this novel brought Vasil Bykau popularity and recognition. It started with the novel's translation into Russian and its first publication in the popular Russian "thick" journal Druzhba narodov.^ The translation, however, hardly does justice to the work. In fact, it is "sweetened" immensely to please the tastes of Soviet officialdom, and often covers up or suppresses the main character's Belarusanness. Treciaja rakieta is a first-person narration in which the narrator, called Lazniak (Belarusan chap), often switches his "I" to plural "we," as if to emphasize the common aim of the group he finds himself in after his return from the hospital. Like his predecessor, Hlecyk, Lazniak is one of six soldiers who are set a task that is almost impossible to achieve. Subsequently, as the only survivor of the ordeal, he recalls the events with the painful emotions of one who was not a mere witness but rather an active participant. Almost everyone is new (at first glance) in this ordinary and fortuitously assembled group. Lazniak, however, unlike Hlecyk, is an experienced soldier who has participated in the partisans' struggle. He is haunted by what the Nazis did to his motherland, Belarus, and in particular to its population. By chance, Lazniak had observed one of the Germans' repressive actions on his way back from a partisan function; wounded and insufficiently armed, he was compelled to remain a mere observer: By noon Germans and policemen began to drive villagers from their homes into the road. They drove everyone out - adults and youths, women and children.

57 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

They put everyone in two long columns, along the ruts in the road, as if queued up, at the outskirts. A whimper and shots were heard from the road. People anticipated something terrible, and under orders, but unwillingly, they lay down in the mud and water. On the other side of the village, cars, armored troop carriers, and cross-country vehicles were approaching and congregating. An hour later, something terrible was happening. A column of cars started to move along the road. They were driving straight along the ruts of the road. One cannot forget this ... My torments started that day.z8

What Lazniak feels is a personal vendetta against the murderers, and this gives him strength to fight his enemies. These complex feelings, though based on anger, could have saved his sanity and humanity, and later on brought him to the front. But even he, an experienced and eager fighter, is apprehensive before the battle. Lazar' Lazarev, himself a war invalid, expressed this feeling eloquently: "Those whom a similar lot has befallen remember well that a return to the front lines after a time in hospital is not a simple matter; it is not easier, and maybe even more difficult, for the one who already knows what awaits him - even when that one is trying against all odds to get back as soon as possible."2^ Lazniak, however, conquers his natural fears and once again rises to the occasion. Bykau manages to surprise the reader afresh by enriching his usual types of protagonists with individual features. Thus, the sergeant major Zautycha is a much more rounded individual than his "brother" Karpenka in Zurauliny cryk. An orphan, Kryvyonak, whose life has been as harsh as Psanicny's and Svist's, turns out to be a fair and dutiful man. Lyoska Zadarozny, who for his treachery and cowardly actions earns similar treatment to Ausiejeu in the previous novel, is not as disgusting a character as the latter. Although Zadarozny, too, is a negative stereotype, his joyful personality makes him more acceptable to the reader at the beginning of the novel. The role of the exotic national minority, played by Fisar in Zurauliny cryk, is now given to an even more unusual figure for Slavs: Papou, a Yakut. First he evokes a negative reception from most of the soldiers in the company: Papou looks awkward, speaks bad Russian, and continually prompts distasteful remarks from the snobbish Zadarozny. Papou, however, is an irreplaceable gun-layer and a fearless soldier. It is chiefly because of Papou's efforts that the battery where Lazniak's team is fighting accomplishes the incredible deed of stopping the Germans' forceful attack. Another unusual character is the private Luk'ianau, who is suffering from malaria. Luk'ianau was reduced to the rank of private after his return from German captivity.

58 Vasil Bykau

Before his demise, he confesses to Lazniak that his previous stories of unjust treatment were lies: Luk'ianau was a coward and went into captivity voluntarily in the first place. He dies, however, as a good soldier, with the reader feeling compassion for his suffering. For soldiers of Bykau's generation, captivity meant lifelong shame. This notion was an outcome of the Soviet way of life and propaganda, but even in the tsars' army, both officially and privately, captivity was seen as a very negative event. In Soviet times, however, a captive would immediately be stigmatized as a traitor, a collaborator, and, in many cases, even a deserter. Later, Bykaii re-evaluated and changed his artistic conception of captivity (see, for example, his short novel Sciuza). In Treciaja rakieta, however, both his main protagonist, Lazniak, and the unfortunate Luk'ianau understand captivity to be a cardinal sin, the obvious fault of the one who gets captured. In other words, the official view of such cases is in tune with the author's interpretations of the subject. There is a brief section in my February 2001 interview with the writer where it is clear that, despite his experiences, Bykau still considers personal captivity to be disastrous, if not repugnant: ZG: Did the idea of captivity, of personal surrender to the Germans, ever occur to you while you were at war? VB: Never. For me personally that would have been worse than death itself. I have to tell you that there were many occasions when I had to decide quickly whether to die or to get captured. I would always choose possible death against captivity. To be taken prisoner was never an option for me. Once, when my foot was wounded pretty badly and the Germans were very close (our battalion had been defeated), I did everything: I ran, I crawled, and when German tanks finally reached us, I was throwing hand grenades together with the others. Some of my friends were also wounded and though I was bleeding heavily, and so were they, we continued to fight. The contemporary reader should understand what stands behind this notion: at the time, it was not only the person who surrendered to the enemy whose fate was affected; whole families were persecuted and often considered outlaws. Even those who were captured while unconscious, if they could not prove it, were punished. There is also a schematically developed and highly romanticized love story in the novel. Everyone is in love with Liusia, the nurse in the company. Lazniak and Kryvyonak worship the young woman, and both are tormented with jealousy when the experienced ladies' man, Zadarozny, pretends that he has seduced Liusia. Lazniak starts a fight with him after

59 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

hearing his disrespectful remarks about the girl, and Zadarozny (although physically stronger) loses it. While Lazniak's and the others' feelings towards the nurse are well depicted, Liusia herself is not one of Bykau's successes: she is too good to be true. She is an ideal, and she acts impeccably, but somehow, as a person, she is dead long before the author allows her to die in crossfire. The love story within the narrative is a mistake in this otherwise well-written novel. Lazniak's character, on the other hand, is believable in many respects. It shines above all when his Belarusanness is involved. First, Lazniak explains to the orphan Kryvyonak how important the notion of home is to him. Second, his partisan years took place in his homeland, and he is always nostalgic about that period of his life. He remembers Belarus: Over there, far north, near the spurs of the Carpathians, which on a fine day show up as a bluish haze on the horizon, somewhere there lies my country, my unfortunate and tormented Belarus. A long and difficult year had passed since I left it. I was hardly alive then: there were heavy bandages all over my body, and my hip was shattered. I was rescued by plane and brought back to life, and soon I was able to take up arms again. But my countrymen, my old parents and sisters, as well as the partisans of my native detachment, "The Avengers," are all there. I could not return to them: my military fate has thrown me to the left flank of a huge, faraway front, but my soul is there in that distant wooded country. My soul is in great distress, like a stork?0 that has lost its family, circling over Belarusan fields, blue-eyed lakes, copses, roads big and small, and over the roofs of our poor villages that have turned green from moss. Our boys from the "Avengers," patient and tolerant of all misfortunes, those who are still alive, and those who are not, have never left my thoughts. And in this small account I always carry in myself the reserved and silent pride that I am a Belarusan. I do not take offence when, after having mispronounced one Russian word or another, I hear from Zadarozny: trapka.31 It's all right that I cannot speak Russian as well as he does; I have my own validity, and he, no matter what he does, cannot really offend me.3z

Patience and tolerance are continually ascribed to the Belarusans as natural qualities of their national character, and Lazniak proves himself to be the carrier of these national traits. This excerpt contains autobiographical features (except that Bykau was never a partisan). Despite the fact that Treciaja rakieta was published in 1961 and reflects events and feelings from the last years of the war, Lazniak's monologue is an excellent example of how Bykau utilized his national idea during the war and for almost twenty years afterward. There is a striking difference in the Belarusan and Russian versions of

60 Vasil Bykau

the text. They are so disparate that one wonders whether the Russian version has anything to do with the author's writing, and if the translator and editors rewrote it. The sense of pure Soviet pathos that romanticizes the Soviet Belarusan pre-war situation in the Russian translation is absent in the Belarusan. Thus, the description of the tranquility of nature in the Russian translation evokes ambiguous feelings of a Golden Age that had no grounds in reality in Bykau's motherland. Belarus lost huge numbers of its peasantry during and after the collectivization, and continued to lose population due to the Stalinist purges right before and after the war. One can sense all of this in the Belarusan edition, but the Russian version reproduced here evokes different feelings: That place is far away north at a distance from the Carpathians, whose spurs show up on a fine day as a bluish haze on the horizon. My country, my tormented Belarus, is there. It is almost a year since I left it. I was helpless, with a shattered hip, and there was not a spot without a bandage on my body when a plane took me away from the front line. Good people brought me back to life, and I took up arms again. But my countrymen, my old parents, are all there. Partisans of my native detachment, "The Avengers," are also there. I did not get back to them: my military fate has thrown me to the flank of the huge Romanian front, but what can I do, my soul is there in that distant wooded country. Day and night our blue-eyed lakes are in front of me. I dream about an uproar in our forest thickets. Our forests are full of all kinds of animals and birds, which bring memories of childhood's mystical fears. They are so plentiful during the berry-picking time in summer, and mushroom hunting in fall. All of this, however, happened so long ago, in a half-forgotten, hardly attainable and serene time before the war. Now everything has changed. Today our little villages are silent in their dark depression; the fields are empty and the forest thickets of western Belarus still echo to the sound of partisan battles.33 My heroic and firm Belarus, whose good name sounds through the thousands of its fighting and perished sons and daughters, lives at present a very different life. And I always carry a silent pride in myself for them, my humble countrymen. I know that I am deeply indebted to my land and my suffering people. But I am a soldier; my time had not come yet to do anything about it. I am waiting for it and trying to be patient.34 Lazniak "turns out" to be a very artful narrator: this character, whose single day is full of more events and emotions than are most people's entire lives, speaks sincerely and passionately about the war. Here is what Lazniak, half-alive from an exhausting day that has brought him so many losses, thinks about the war:

61 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

And I think to myself, who of us would have dreamt yesterday what today brought us? Could I imagine back then in the hospital that my revenge on the enemy would be poisoned by a new military failure and the baseness of our own soldiers? How complex all this is, and how difficult! I thought back then that I just had to reach the Germans. But they are not alone at fault and the cause of our misfortune! How many fronts I am destined to fight: with enemies in encirclement, with bastards nearby, and at last, with myself.3 5

Lazarev quite rightly considers this monologue crucial for understanding Bykau's works. He comments that in his personal search for truth, Bykau opens the most painful corners of his character's soul by grouping all of his enemies in order of the harm they do to a person's inner self. Thus, the narrator starts first with the external enemies; then he mentions those who are supposed to be on his side - but some of them, "the bastards," are not. And third, the most unbearable and difficult fight assigned to the main character of the novel is that against himself. This struggle continues in the writer's next novel, Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad), published two years after Treciaja rakieta, which had already paved the way to the new novel. Alpijskaja batada (Alpine ballad, 1963) Every year a war was waged somewhere in the world; states that were not involved at the moment were trying very hard to prepare themselves for one, and our developing years were a short break between two wars, during which arms were forged, overwhelming anger was formed, a scientific preparation of the new massacre was shaped, and soldiers of the future detachments, companies, battalions, and regiments were growing up. We felt it all, but despite all odds we hoped that somehow everything would work out and wise rulers, pacts, and the truth of our peaceful life would not allow the war to come. Well, during our childhood war didn't seem to be something unnatural to us - on the contrary, weapons were the most loved toys, and the most interesting books were also about war. The idea of war was attractive to us, and it fascinated us until it was a fantasy, and not a reality. Now when we experience it in its entire idiocy, evilness, wickedness, and fatality, we condemn it every kind, conventional and unconventional, hostile and defensive - and let it be consigned to perdition forever! Vasil Bykau, Treciaja rakieta

62 Vasil Bykau

This excerpt from Lazniak's lament, or prayer, is the quintessence of what Vasil Bykau's generation was trying to pass on to future generations. The words could be used as a school prayer, where every youngster is educated in the truth about war. Unfortunately, this will never happen in real life, for the reasons so explicitly shown in the excerpt. The essence of this is also vividly portrayed in Vasil Bykau's next novel. Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad) was first published early in 1964 and, particularly after its Russian translation, gained a wide readership. 36 The general critical reception, however, was not very positive or enthusiastic, even among friendly and liberal critics. Later on, when passions cooled, a clearer picture appeared in literary criticism. The novel is generally regarded as Bykau's least successful literary work of the period: "Quite a new departure for Bykau was Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad, 1963), one of his less successful works and the source for a banal film."37 McMillin also notes that the Russian translation is "mysteriously" lacking the criticism of collective farms, as well as some parallels between the Soviet and Nazi systems, which were outlined clearly in the original Belarusan. The plot of this highly lyrical work is three fold: it covers the pre-war period, three days of freedom during wartime (during an escape from a German camp), and a peaceful life eighteen years after the war. The main character, Ivan Ciareska, is a familiar figure. Of course he is Belarusan, a peasant's son who worked on the collective farm before the outbreak of war; and positive national features - patience, kindness, tolerance, stoicism to the point of personal heroism - are ascribed to him in the novel. The narration of Alpijskaja balada is generally in the third person, with personalized elements of inner monologue, dialogue, flashbacks, and even first-person narration in the epilogue. The first-person narration takes the form of Julia's letter to Ivan's family and friends, which she sends eighteen years later to the village of Ciareski. Julia is a young Italian who joins Ivan in his flight from a German concentration camp. In this letter Julia, who was saved by Ivan, writes with pathos of the three days they spent together in the Alpine mountains, and explains in spirited language how this meeting changed her entire life. There is even a hint in the letter (given her son's age and calculating from the year of the escape) that her son Giovanni is also Ivan's child. Julia is portrayed as an extremely idealistic young woman, an antifascist fighter from a middle-class family who rejects the values of bourgeois society, joins the partisans in Trieste, is captured, and is thrown into a concentration camp. She joins Ivan on the spur of the moment, when she accidentally witnesses Ivan's shooting of a German officer on his

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fourth attempt to escape. The novel describes the two youngsters' difficult but blissful three days of freedom, and their endeavour to reach the partisans in Trieste. During the escape, they fall in love and become lovers. On the eve of the fourth day, however, the Germans hunt them down. Ivan, who has been wounded, throws Julia down the cliff, where she lands safely on soft snow; she is later found by a "kind-hearted" man and is nursed back to life. Ivan himself stays behind and secures Julia's miraculous escape by accepting the Germans' blows. Lazarev (who provides the most extensive and, at the same time, harshest criticism of Alpijskafa baiada}, reproaches the writer for a temporary but noticeable departure from his habitual sober realism. He bolsters his position with one of Bykau's own statements: "War - says Bykaii - is much too serious a matter to be used as a building block for the Sunday reading of an inert reader."38 The critic thinks that Alpijskaja baiada is too sweet a novel. While examining the novel's structure, Lazarev outlines two plots, one focused on Ivan and the other on Julia. The critic comes to the conclusion that if the first plot is well made, the second is not; as a result, the plots never meet, and each lives its own separate life in the novel: "Romantic plot and romantic style in the novel do not support the content of the story: they carry only the outward makeup. This is why the romantic circumstances of one of the plots feel like a departure from psychological and living truth, and romantic style turns into heaviness, clumsily beautified ponderousness."39 Lazarev ends his review of Alpijskaja baiada on a positive note, however, by stating that Bykaii learned from this experience, and never again put such an artificial character as Julia in his work. I would not completely agree with this statement. Although it is true that no such helpless figure as Julia ever again appeared in Bykau's literary work, his young women in romantic situations continued to look more like prefabricated dolls from the same factory until more mature female characters replaced them. Perhaps the war is once again to blame for the fact that young Bykaii, like most people in his generation, had no opportunity to gain an understanding of his female contemporaries; or it may be the Soviet upbringing that, on the one hand, romanticized femininity, and on the other commonly encouraged disrespect for and even abhorrence of women. In this case, the young writer was left with two choices: to depict his heroines by the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century standards that he knew so well from literature, or to use the other standards that he also knew only too well: the cartoon-like concept of female characters found in Soviet literature. There were writers such as Pasternak, Mandelshtam, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, and Bulgakov who mastered romance in their

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works; however, these celebrated five were from a different, earlier cultural period (the first four came from the Silver Age, while Bulgakov was a legitimate heir of that rich era). Vasil Bykau's literary inheritance from Slavic culture missed the Silver Age generation, and he had to learn literary romance from the writers of the nineteenth century, who generally had little success in depicting female characters and, particularly, men's romantic feelings. Keeping this in mind, one should not judge the writer too harshly for following their example at the beginning of his literary career. Bykau's mature female characters are a different matter: the artistic mastery in their portrayal reached its high point only at the end of the 19705, and was crowned by Sciapamda. This protagonist, with all of her psychological depth and verisimilitude, has become one of the soundest characters in Slavic literatures, as will be discussed in detail later. Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn, 1972) I was interested here mostly in the measure of personal responsibility. It is known that in war the senior officers issue the orders and share the responsibility for success and failure in any action. And here is a case when the initiator of an action is a junior officer, but in fact his idea ends up as a complete disaster. Of course, this is not Ivanouski's fault: he should be cleared because he honestly did his best. But Ivanouski himself cannot excuse his own actions: after all, the deed demanded incredible effort, and his subordinates paid for it with their lives. No one is at fault for Ivanouski's demise: he chose his own destiny because of his high sense of responsibility, which would not allow him to lie, either in serious or in lighter matters. Vasil Bykau, Life Is a Great Academy

Lieutenant Ihar Ivanouski does not survive the dawn of one late fall morning in 1941. The Germans are on their way to Moscow. The Soviets are desperate to stop them, but are unable to do so for a number of obvious reasons: the Germans are better equipped, much more organized, and at that moment their military art is far superior. This Belarusan protagonist, Ivanouski, who grew up in Kublicy (a township only three kilometres away from the village where Bykaii himself was born), is not a novice in military matters. His father was a veterinarian for the Belarusan border troops in Kublicy. He himself graduated from the military college and was sent to Hrodna on the eve of the Second Patriotic War. This city is now very dear to him because of

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his first love, Janinka, whom he has met only recently, and whom he misses even more than his father, who raised him on his own. This love story, while as schematic as others in Bykau's battle stories, stands out favourably; the girl's character is depicted as if in watercolour. To enhance this image, Janina's father is an artist in the city that she loves so much, and she proudly shares Hrodna with Ihar by showing him the city's beautiful sites during his first days there. These images of the city that the Germans bombed a few days later stay with the young lieutenant throughout the five months of his bitter military experiences, when everything around him builds up his need for retribution against the enemy. Among his losses, Ivanoiiski counts the disappearance of his habitual way of life, his occupied Belarus, his filial guilt, his unfulfilled and interrupted love, and, of course, his comrades-in-arms, who like himself were ill-equipped for the catastrophe that befell them: "During these war months Ivanoiiski forever lost so much! One would think that it was time to get used to these losses and yield to them or accept their inevitability. However, no matter how much he tried to get used to them, from time to time he was stricken with such depression that he felt more like exposing his own head to a cursed shot than observing how a person close to him was buried in an eternal grave. "4° In his wanderings while encircled by the Germans, Ivanoiiski discovers a German ammunition dump. He had earlier devised a plan to find the dump and destroy it, and his commanders had eagerly accepted his proposal. The general with whom he discussed his plan was desperate for any break in the situation: the Germans were advancing toward Moscow, they were well equipped, and the general's infantry was fully exposed to them. Even the weather was against the Soviets at the time; it prevented military aircraft from supporting the ground troops. Ivanoiiski leads his group on cross-country skis across snowbound occupied territory, experiencing tremendous physical hardships and serious human losses amongst his fellow soldiers. When they finally reach their destination, they discover nothing: the Germans have moved their depots elsewhere. In McMillin's words: "One by one, the men, ill equipped and inexperienced for such a risky venture, succumb to a series of misfortunes and accidents. "41 Ivanoiiski, who feels responsible for them as well as for the failure of the mission, makes an executive decision: he sends his group back, and with only one partner, searches for the ammunition dump. After losing his partner, the wounded lieutenant chooses a suicidal fate, taking with him the life of a German soldier. In his last moments, "Ivanoiiski slowly put down his grenade and silently repeated, like a prayer, 'Come here, please come closer' ... He was waiting, a living personification of expectation, incapable of doing anything

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else. He couldn't throw the grenade at the German; he could only blow them up together. "4* An objective critic might note that there is nothing new in Bykau's kamikaze figure of Ivanoiiski: a fanatic in one camp is a hero in another. For many observers, the lieutenant is obviously a fanatic; nevertheless, this type of fanaticism - or patriotism, if you will - was typical of the time, and it brought victory, however bloody and bitter, to the Soviets in their struggle against Nazis. The secret of this victory against vastly better-equipped armies lies in these unprecedented human losses, in which Soviet soldiers often willingly sacrificed their lives. Bykau could not pass over such a potent phenomenon. "Svajaki" (Cousins, 1966)

The lieutenants' prose of Vasil Bykau's first volume suddenly gives way to the short story "Svajaki," which ends it. It is not only the genre that differentiates this short story from the other literary works collected in the volume: the action also moves to occupied Belarus. The plot of the story concerns more domestic troubles, connected indirectly with the theme of the partisans and their antagonists, the police. Thematically, therefore, the story would be more appropriate in the third volume, where partisan novels and novellas are collected.43 The plot of "Svajaki" is classic for the short story; it is a short narration about a single event with a stupefying ending. The seven pages of the story fly by in response to the dynamics of the narration. A nameless woman, called "she" in the third-person narration, is arguing with her two sons, Syomka (fifteen years old) and Ales, (who is about seventeen). She is a recent widow, and her sons are about to join the partisans. Their mother is desperately opposed to this decision and frantically tries to prevent her children from acting on it. First she runs to the boys' friend, who, she thinks, is responsible for their childish decision. When she fails to find him, she conceives the idea of asking her nephew, Drozd, to help her convince the boys to change their minds. She knows that Drozd is serving in the police, but he is a close relation, a cousin to the boys. She begs him: "Piatrovic, my dearest, I implore you, don't harm them. Give them a fright, maybe, but don't punish them. They are so young, so completely green. "44 The Polizei, however, feels differently, and he kills the boys without a second thought. Cousin Drozd also beats up Ales before shooting him. Widowed and now childless, the mother commits suicide. Though "Svajaki" differs in many respects from the literary works of

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the first volume, it ponders the same question raised in all of Bykau's works: the concept of choice. With the same question in mind, we follow the writer to his second volume.

The Problem of Choice Soto/tew (Sotnikau, 1970) At the time when I decided on those titles I liked them, but not any more ... let's say Sotnikau ... the title was Tvardouski's idea, and even now I think that my title, Liquidation, would better reflect the essence of the novel. During the war a solid model stood behind this word, which was widely used during the occupation. You see, the police, both the German and the Belarusan police, were frequently behind in their investigations and rather often they had more people under arrest than they could handle. As a result, the police would collect a party of prisoners, up to fifty or sixty people, and keep them in some kind of closely guarded barn. In cases like that they would often randomly execute prisoners. They labelled such executions with the murderous word "liquidation." I have an episode in the plot of the novel that reproduces this situation ... Besides, why should this novel be called Sotnikau? The main dramatic conflict of the plot is shared equally between two people: Rybak and Sotnikau. If a proper name is to be used for a title, these two names should have been there. I understand that Tvardouski tried to pacify the censors this way, but I still consider Sotnikau a rather poor title. Later on, somehow, I didn't want to change it. Let it be, though it is weak. Vasil Bykau, Interview, February 2001

Sotnikau is one of the most reviewed of Bykau's novels, and continues to be highly respected by his readership. It was also the writer's first novel translated into English (as early as 1972), under the title Ordeal. One of the main questions raised in the novel is the hammering question of choice, which turns into the novel's major theme. McMillin's summary of the novel's plot also points in the same direction: The story concerns a particularly difficult mission by two partisans in occupied Belarus, and the different reactions of the two, both highly committed and

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competent fighters, to the disaster of failure and capture. Bykaii's particular type of realism includes a strong gift for portraying physical experiences, and the reader shares the partisans' discomfort, despair and acute pain as they struggle against the harsh and punishing forces of bleak Belarusan terrain in winter; an additional factor is that one of the two, Sotnikau, is sick even before they set out and only volunteers through pride. For this reason, apart from its inherent hazards, the successful outcome of the mission is in doubt from the start ... Briefly sheltered by some peasants, one of whom turns out to be the village headman, they are put to the supreme moral test by the ruthless Belarusan puppet police (Polizei) into whose hands they soon fall; Sotnikau passes the test and dies; his comrade Rybak, under similar interrogation and torture, makes first one (clearly rational) compromise and then another, ending as a collaborator and witness, indeed, helper, at the public hanging not only of his comrade, but also of two peasants and a thirteen-year-old Jewish girl.45

Many reviewers of the novel noted its psychological depth, achieved by means of giving roughly equal weight to Sotnikau's and Rybak's voices, set against a non-judgmental, third-person narration. McMillin concurs with Deming Brown,46 who compares Vasil Bykau with Jack London, saying that, compared to London, "he is more interested in motive than in results, and his works have a great deal more psychological substance than London's."47 In actuality, Rybak, particularly in the beginning of the novel, is given more of the focus than his comrade through the voice of the narrator and through inner monologues. Thus, the reader learns that Rybak, a peasant's son, is of a rather even-tempered, good, and friendly nature: "He disliked terribly causing trouble for others - to offend anyone by chance or on purpose, it was hard for him if anyone felt insulted. True, it was difficult to avoid it in the army; when it was necessary he drove people hard. However, he tried to act in good will, for the sake of service and not in his own interest. He also always tried not to lose his temper. "48 Rybak is, as well, the one who, at the beginning of the novel, not only feels compassion but acts on it. Thus, he leaves the village's headman unharmed, despite Sotnikau's inclinations to the contrary. He is a good comrade to Sotnikau as well: when the latter is ill, Rybak takes care of him. At last, when they are on their way back to the partisans' camp and fall into a Polizei ambush, Rybak, who escapes first, returns in hopes of rescuing his comrade. Both characters end up with the partisans after serving in the regular army. Although their military ranks in the army were rather different Rybak was just a sergeant major, while Sotnikau was a company commander - Rybak is the soldier who shines. After all, he was an experi-

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enced soldier, with the Finnish war behind him, while Sotnikaii was a teacher before the war and was an inexperienced serviceman. Sotnikau also lost his company in their very first battle. Of course it was not his fault: the fierce German attacks of the first days of the war wiped out entire Soviet armies, and his company was just a grain of sand. Sotnikau, however, cannot stop thinking about his personal responsibility for his company, as well as the day when he lost his men. The task of the two partisans has no direct relationship to military or political action; in fact their business is simple: to get some food for the hungry and destitute group they belong to. Down-to-earth and industrious, Rybak is doubtlessly fit more to this task than the intellectual Sotnikau who, in addition to his impractical nature, is stricken with an illness, the symptoms of which point to pneumonia. However, he is a person with an innate sense of duty, and when Rybak questions his motive for accepting their task, Sotnikau's response - that he accepted the mission simply because others refused - bewilders his companion. There are a number of elements in Sotnikau's character that Rybak cannot comprehend. Here is an example of one of their conversations: "- How come you didn't get some kind of a hat? Would this forage cap warm you up? Rybak said reproachfully. - Hats do not grow in a forest. - But every peasant has one in a village. - Sotnikau didn't respond at once. - So one should strip it off a villager? - Why must it be stripped off? There are other ways. - OK, let's go! Sotnikau abruptly stopped the conversation."49

These small details draw more attention to his character, as well as suggesting that Sotnikau's rather gloomy figure has some sympathetic features. Soon the reader finds out that, despite being desperately hungry and weak, he does not accept any food or drink from the village headman's wife. His motive is not explained, but it is obvious: he thinks that Rybak will execute the headman, and he chooses not to take anything from a collaborator's household. Significantly, Sotnikau is also the first protagonist in the novel to philosophize on the question of death. Everything that Sotnikau lived through during the war again and again proved the irrefutability of an idea that was not all that original in the first place: the only real value that a person has in the world is his life. Some day, in a thoroughly human society, it will become an absolute category, the measure and value of everything. Each such life, being the main sense of human existence, will

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become the highest value for all of humanity, the strength and harmony of which will be measured against the happiness of every individual person. And death, what can one do - no one can pass it by. What is important is to give a person the chance not to die a ludicrous death, and to give an individual the chance to use with care and kindness the very short period of time that is given us in this world. With all the might and advantages that humans have over nature, it seems that a person remains very limited in his physical abilities when the smallest piece of metal is enough to take away forever this one life that is so dear to everyone.5°

This passionate "To be or not to be" of Bykau/Sotnikau/Rybak, developed against the background of the twentieth-century experience, strikes the reader with all the power, weakness, and beauty of its compassionate approach. This discourse, as it opens the mind of a sick and wounded partisan at a village cemetery, contains all of his former awkwardness and shows Sotnikau's wholesome character. Indeed, his inability to get himself a decent hat, or to accept food from an enemy (the village headman's wife), and his taking a partisan mission that everyone else had rejected, come in focus and became a catalyst that renders this protagonist alive and more likeable. These details add blood and bones to a character who at first seemed to be rather spineless. It is not only Sotnikau's courage and dutifulness but also his compassion and, in particular, his ability to feel gratitude that make him stand out in a crowd. Sotnikau's ability to be grateful is both the premise and distinguishing feature of the character. Rybak is also courageous, dutiful, and compassionate. The only features lacking in his character are gratitude and remorse. Thus, he leaves his lover Zoska and her family - who nurture Rybak back to health after rescuing him from the Germans - without a second thought, remorse, or gratitude. He feels no gratitude or sorrow for Dziamcycha, the mother of three, who gives the partisans shelter and is punished for it. Sotnikau, by contrast, is full of gratitude and remorse. He feels guilt toward Dziamcycha, and lies to the Polizei from the start, claiming that he and Rybak had imposed on the woman's hospitality against her will. He is full of remorse toward the old village headman, Pyotra, who is about to be hanged for his connection with the partisans. When it turns out that Pyotra had accepted his position because the underground of the area wanted him to, Sotnikau cannot stop reproaching himself for his own shortsightedness; Rybak takes the news with indifference. The last night before the execution tears the masks from the people who are about to die in the morning: Dziamcycha, Pyotra, Sotnikau, Rybak, and a thirteen-year-old Jewish girl, Basia, the only survivor of the township's massacre. Basia has recently been captured and molested by the Polizei. Everyone except Rybak, who is paralyzed by fear, is moved

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by her terrible story, and they agree with Pyotra's comments: "They started with the Jews, but they will finish with us."5 T In the morning, however, there are only four hangings; Rybak is spared. In Bykau's philosophy, the ability to be grateful is also a measure of humanity, and is as important as feelings of fear for one's life. This subtle but powerful quality alone serves to differentiate between human heroism and cowardice. This feature, in combination with tolerance, might give us the answer to Lazarev's question: How can one tell where the point lies when human endurance gives out, as it does in Rybak's case? The same question seems to bother Pyotra: "Here is what I am thinking all the time - (the village elder started to move around) - What about our people who joined them? What to make of them? He was living, eating among us, he looked people in the eye, and now he has acquired a gun, and is ready to aim. And they shoot! How many had they already murdered. "*z Lazarev, in examining the novel, recalls and underlines the fact that Bykau once encountered a person who made a choice similar to Rybak's and recounts this story to the reader. This following took place in August 1944, as the future writer was passing a Romanian village where war captives were gathered: And suddenly the suntanned, unshaven face of one of them, who was sitting inertly in a ditch close to a hedge, seemed familiar to me. The captive also looked at me attentively, and the next moment I recognized a former serviceman who had been considered dead since the fall of 1943. Moreover, for the audacity he had shown in a heavy battle at the bridgehead of the river Dnepr, for his skilful command of the encircled company of which he had been the chief-of-staff, this person had been "posthumously" rewarded with the highest order ... At the beginning of our advance, he had to fight against us, although, it goes without saying, he was aiming into the air; he consoled himself that he was not an enemy. And finally he turned up in captivity, of course, of his own free will; otherwise he wouldn't be sitting here. I listened to him and believed him: he wasn't lying, he was telling the truth. Doubtless he was not one of those who aspired to serve the enemy; his personal courage and military mastery had been highly rewarded. Simply, in captivity, he put his own life ahead of everything and decided to outsmart the Germans. And here is a tearful account of this cunning.53

It is clear from this passage that, at the time of writing, the author judged his former comrade-in-arms purely by Soviet standards, unlike democratic states, which encourage their soldiers to choose captivity over death. In general, this novel reflects barely even a hint of direct judgment

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or accusation; it is, rather, a more complex and yet lucid psychological treatment of the question of choice. Existentialists consider this question to be one of the principal considerations in their philosophy; I will discuss Bykau's progression towards existentialism in a later chapter. However, Ales Adamovic, a friend, writer, critic, and doubtless the person closest to Bykau's artistic outlook, noticed as early as 1972-73 Vasil Bykau's fascination with the genre of the parable that was favoured by existentialists. Adamovic states that Bykau adapts this ancient genre to twentieth-century realism; Sotnikau can be considered a good example of such an adaptation. Lazarev, though, vehemently opposes such an interpretation, and rejects all opinions, including those of A. Bocharov and L. Shepit'ko (Lazarev, 138-9) who agree with Adamovic: A weakness of the otherwise promising film version of Sotnikau by L. Shepit'ko, in my view, is revealed in the fact that spectators are offered the Judas and Christ parable as the key to understanding Rybak's and Sotnikau's story. But this key does not open anything in this case. The Gospel motif used in the film version does not clarify, but obscures, the sense of what Bykau intended to say. Rybak is not treacherous, and only the inhuman trials of war against a monstrous enemy, the nature of which Sotnikau tries to explain to him - "This is the machine! You either serve it or it will grind you down to powder!"- have brought the character to this betrayal; under other conditions it would not happen. The parable of Judas and Christ, in my view, has no place here.54

In the complicated matter of choice, Bykau raises a subtle and sophisticated question to which he offers a coherent answer: in the struggle between eternal good and evil, a person is entitled to take the high moral ground only when human kindness, the ability to feel gratitude, and the experience of remorse form a complex yet solid synthesis that enables a person to keep his or her humanity. The writer's task, according to Bykau's favourite writer, Anton Chekhov, is to raise a question; thereafter the interpretation falls to the readership. The fact, however, that starting in the early 19905 Bykau concentrated on the genre of the parable, and by the end of the 19905 made it almost his only mode of narration, confirms the interpretations of Adamovic and others.55 Zdrada (Treachery, 1970) Zdrada (Treachery) makes treachery its central theme, using biographical detail, interior monologue and, rather persuasively,

73 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose direct confession to a childhood friend the principal means by which the villain Bliscynski's character is revealed; the confession is convincing since Bliscynski feels he has nothing to lose by frankness, for he considers the other two main characters to be entirely within his power, since he can threaten to denounce them to the authorities for abandoning their damaged field-gun without permission. Arnold McMillin, Belarus/an Literature

The question of choice is raised once again in Vasil Bykau's novella Zdrada, which appears after Sotnikau in the second volume but was written ten years earlier. The third-person narration, with the intermittent flashbacks and interior monologues that Vasil Bykau used as major literary devices, creates a rich backdrop to Bliscynski's character. This mode of narration generates verisimilitude in the depiction of complex events, where other characters find themselves in the same circumstances as Bliscynski. The plot of the novella is not complicated: encircled German troops are breaking through the Soviet positions in the early winter of 1944. Unexpected attacks leave an artillery battery serviced by two friends, Valodzia Cimoskin, and his superior, Ivan Scarbak, with only one other man present, the useless old horseman Zdabudzka. The latter has lost their horses, preventing them from moving the battery to the rear. In addition, all the battery's ammunition had been used, and there is none available to destroy the artillery, as the rules require. Scarbak orders them to disguise the battery, and they take away one of its heavy pieces in order to disable it before they leave. On their way to the Soviet position, the group encounters Hryska Bliscynski, Cimoskin's countryman and antagonist (both not only Belarusans but born in the same village). Bliscynski tells them lies, claiming that he has been taking care of the wounded Major Andreeu, their commander, who practically died in his arms. He shows the major's field bag as proof, dispelling, for the time being, Cimoskin's suspicion and his prejudices against his childhood friend. Bliscynski's villainous nature is revealed to them, however, when Scarbak goes to search for Zdabudzka, who is missing after the last German attack, and instead brings back the living but (due to Bliscynski's betrayal) heavily wounded and frostbitten Andreeu. That is not Bliscynski's only act of treachery. The scoundrel also tries to manipulate his companions into performing all the dangerous duties on their path back to the regular army. He finally deserts (probably to

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the Germans) in their last battle with a German group, during which Ivan Scarbak is heavily wounded; in order to give his friend Valodzia Cimoskin (who is also badly wounded) a chance to escape, Ivan commits suicide. Bykau, as noted earlier, almost never portrays his countrymen negatively in his military works. The situation is very different in his partisan stories, however, which will be examined in the next chapter; in Sotnikau, as in other partisan-based stories, his characters' national identity does not shield them from misconduct. The writer also gives a schematic but lucid depiction of the wrongdoings during collectivization, when Bliscynski also manifested his corrupt nature. McMillin asserts: Bliscynski, the bemedalled secretary of the company Comsomol organization and a candidate for the Party, illustrates clearly Bykau's conviction of the falsity of political careerism and slogan-mouthing, of the hard-liners who under the conditions of Stalinism found the atmosphere of lies a natural element and could use their powers for ruthless bullying. Here, as elsewhere in Bykau's writing, what he describes as "the truth about the war" means in practice the truth about the arbitrariness, suspicion, fear, cynicism, incompetence and treachery which so greatly increased the difficulties of the ordinary Soviet people trying to defend their homeland.56

Through the detailed memories of Cimoskin, the reader understands the formation of Hryska Bliscynski's character. The latter, only three years older than Cimoskin, is the only available male friend in their childhood village. A cunning bully from birth, Bliscynski outsmarts everyone around him. Once, when they find a wallet with a passport and fifty rubles in it, Hryska takes the money, returning the passport only under pressure from Valodzia Cimoskin. The passport's happy owner then rewards Hryska Bliscynski with more money, which he also keeps; his "noble" deed is publicized in a school paper, and he intimidates Cimoskin, whom he considers a meek and naive simpleton. The latter is literally morally sick afterwards; he cuts off all relations with Bliscynski, and wants to turn in his former friend, but cannot compel himself to do so. Soon afterward, the Bliscynski family leaves the village for a district town. Later, during the war, Cimoskin encounters Bliscynski first in the village, to which he has returned, and then in the partisan detachment. There, among the partisans, Bliscynski demonstrates his nature to the fullest: he denounces his comrades and angles for easier jobs, but is always the first to propagate fashionable Soviet slogans. Arnold McMillin makes an excellent analysis of Bliscynski's character: "After Bliscynski's act of betrayal in Zdrada, the young hero

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Cimoskin pictures the former's future, post-war life as a powerful, influential and respected parasite." McMillin then confirms his analysis with an exemplary translation: "Clearly, behind their backs he would escape to safety, survive, wait until the happy day and then like a tick bite into the new post-war life - bite into the sweetest and softest place. Medals for gallantry will hang on his chest, his pockets will contain papers giving him the necessary rights in life, he will preach what he himself does not believe, and he will draw profit from such preaching."57 Cimoskin, as the other excerpt from the novel confirms, is of a very different nature: he is a kind, grateful, and honest person. In the following passage, Cimoskin laments the loss of his friend Ivan Scarbak, whom he thinks lost in action (although, fortunately, on that occasion Scarbak turns up with the wounded major on his shoulders). Scarbak has become Cimoskin's elder brother in the past half year of their friendship. He protects the young Belarusan and teaches him the military arts: "It happens in life, and seemingly, particularly in war, that a stranger and an unfamiliar person may become closer to you than the most cherished relative; and your own, well-known acquaintance loses all attraction for some reason. Cimoskin understood this very well during the years he knew Bliscynski, and in his half-year relationship with Ivan at the front."5 8 Although Cimoskin does not do in this novella what Lazniak did in Treciaja rakieta, he swears on the memory of his friend Ivan that if he survives, he will put an end to Bliscynski's misconduct and will reveal the scoundrel's nature. By doing so, he makes his difficult moral choice, as Bliscynski made his immoral one long before. Jaho Bataljon (His battalion, 1975) Have you ever seen communal graves, frequently spread out on former battlefields from Stalingrad to the Elbe, and have you ever read the endless lists of names of those who perished, the great majority of them boys born in 1920-1925? This is the infantry. The infantry covered thickly with its bodies all our paths toward victory, and remained the least noticeable, the least effective force; in any event, it could never be compared with the ramming might of tank formations, with the firing strength of the artillery the God of War - or the brilliance and beauty of aviation. And the infantry is written about the least of all. Why? For the same reason: there is only a small number of those remaining who followed this path from Moscow to Berlin, and the life expectancy of a soldier in infantry was counted in only a few months. I do not know a single soldier or junior officer from the infantry who could

76 Vasil Bykau say today that he was able to remain in the infantry all the way. It was unrealistic for a soldier of a rifle battalion. This is why, it seems to me, the greatest possibility of the military theme is in the silent custody of the infantry's past. Time shows that it is hard to believe that the Messiah will appear in our literature from there, but then we, the living and maybe still capable, have to search there. The infantry of the last war - this is an entire people in their thorny fate, and exactly there we should be looking for everything. Vasil Bykau, Life Is a Great Academy

Lazar' Lazarev has noted that the novel Jaho Bataljon did not provoke the reaction from the reviewers which, by that time, had become habitual with the appearance of every new literary piece by Vasil Bykau. Indeed, even today there is only a small body of literary criticism dedicated to the novel. At present, analyses of Jaho Bataljon are provided mainly by Lazarev himself and by Igor' Dedkov. Both critics are unanimous in their high praise of the novel, as well as their explanation for other critics' silence in its regard. This silence is explained by the many surprises that this novel offers the reader: almost everything in it seems to be unusual for the author whose reputation and literary habits were already well established. First, Bykau had written an epic: there is no other literary work of the writer so heavily populated with characters as Jaho Bataljon. Second, his main character, Captain Valosyn, though of Belarusan origin, cannot be compared to the usual young and naive lieutenants who acquire their humanity and wisdom overnight or in the brief time span of a single battle. A wide range of servicemen of different ranks march through the pages of the novel, from an infantryman to a couple of generals, with all the ranks between. Third, the sober realist depicts fully and without romantic speculation the private lives of many of these characters. Fourth, Valosyn is frequently compared to Tolstoy's captain Tusyn, and rightly so. He is one of the few genuinely positive characters in the entire Soviet literature of the period: full of real human weaknesses, with many emotions that make him entirely familiar and believable. It is interesting to note that Dedkov, who is usually far from the position of typical Soviet criticism (his book on Bykau makes use mainly of a Bakhtinian approach), cannot restrain a familiar pathos when he describes Valosyn: "Valosyn's world is presented to the reader as the only one that represents the possibility of the war's justice, honor and nobility. V. Bykov created this world in memory of people whose military pro-

77 Lieutenant Bykau's Prose

fessionalism was on a par with and well balanced with their humanity. The sense of responsibility of these people wanted nothing to do with the submissiveness of thoughtless executors, and on the basis of its inner moral sense was of no lesser value than another type, which is considered to be of greater magnitude."59 Of course, there is also the necessity of choice in the novel, and its plot focuses on this major theme. We meet the captain first in the trenches, where at various times there also appear three of his company commanders, Kizievic, Muratov, and Samochin; his chief of staff, Markin; the platoon commander, Jarascuk; the orderly, Hutman; Veretennikova, a nurse; Sergeant Major Grak; Sergeant Nahorny; the telephone operator, Charnaruchanka; a couple of majors and a nameless general; the regiment's Komsomol leader, Kruhlou; the soldiers Audziuska, Hajnadulin, Hamziuk, Drozd, Kabakou, Tarasikau, Citok, Jarsok, and many others. The individual and collective fates of these people and others are reflected in and crucially important to the depiction of Valosyn, the literary epitome of the goodness of the infantry, and a figure of oxymoronic but artistically believable "silent" glory. Valosyn's first moments in the trenches are full of the usual business: he regrets the military situation that his battalion is facing; vain and annoying thoughts cross his mind about an order that he was awarded sometime ago, which still has not arrived. The reader discovers this against the backdrop of interaction with Markin, his chief of staff, the orderly Hutman, and a few other soldiers who are there on business. There is also a creature unusual in such a situation: Dzym, the dog that belongs to Valosyn. The reader easily senses the relationship of the characters in the trenches: Markin is a submissive but calculating career officer who is unhappy with his lieutenant's rank, to which he is confined because he spent almost three months under German encirclement and is therefore under surveillance by the Soviet special police; the merry and versatile Hutman is as loyal to the captain as Dzym is; different soldiers relate to Valosyn with respect, but without fear. The captain is apprehensive about his company's military situation. The regiment had been on the attack just yesterday, but the attack was unsuccessful: Valosyn's battalion lost one-third of its men. His company is now facing a hill that Valosyn thinks he should have tried to take the day before. However, the orders were to stop where they are now, and the hill seems like a thorn that has grown overnight, getting larger and stronger every minute and threatening to become a real obstacle to the Soviet advance. A lightly wounded general visits the trenches unexpectedly. He is old

78 Vasil Bykau

and ill-tempered, but while he is bossing the soldiers around, his experience prompts him to evaluate the situation: the regiment must attack and take the hill as soon as possible. On his way to his staff quarters, the general appropriates the dog, which he thinks more suitable to him than to the captain. The regimental commander, Major Hunko, who appears in the trenches as soon as he hears of the visit, eagerly supports the general when he capriciously penalizes Valosyn. The major himself dislikes the experienced but too proud and too academic captain. The only good consequence of the general's visit is the arrival of longawaited reinforcements. The problem with these new arrivals, however, is that out of ninety-two, only a couple of them understand Russian, and they speak it badly; the rest, mainly new Abkhazian or Azerbaijani recruits, speak only their native languages. Valosyn, through a translator, asks the group three questions - who of them is sick, who has no military training, and who is afraid - and tells those who fit the bill to step forward. About fifteen of the recruits acknowledge their illness and lack of training, but no one moves after the third question, and the captain assumes that those who are afraid have already stepped forward. Valosyn then sends the "sick" back to the staff of the regiment with the bewildered Hutman, and addresses the remaining recruits: " - There is a battle tomorrow, and we will all be in it together. Some will be killed. If you keep together and push forward, fewer will die. If you lose your head under fire - more will perish. Remember the law of the infantry: to reach a German and kill him. If you don't manage to kill him, he will kill you. Everything is very simple. In war everything is simple."60 At two in the morning, Valosyn receives an order to attack, followed by two telephone conversations: Hunko, his regimental commander, criticizes the captain for returning the sick recruits; later Minienka, Hunko's political deputy, orders the captain to awaken his new recruits and give them a talk on the political situation. Valosyn, angry with both of them for their stupidity and bullying, talks back to his superiors, only to be reminded of Stalin's political directives: "Today, for the second time in a row, he was reminded of the Supreme Commander's demands. Valosyn threw the receiver onto its leather base, and in angry frustration he pushed his shoulders against the cold wall of the dug-out."61 Valosyn also misses his dog terribly. In the difficult last six months Dzym had become more than a good companion to the captain: as Hutman once notices, the animal and the man share almost human feelings for each other. Valosyn feels lonelier than ever without his dog. The captain goes out to inspect the soldiers before the battle. In particular he is worried about the new recruits. On his way to the units,

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Valosyn thinks about Markin and analyzes his own uneasy feelings toward his deputy: "It was not too difficult to understand Markin: not every person during the war who had gotten into such a terrible twist of fate would be able to keep his soul unbroken. The battalion commander learns from life and his commanding experience that people are people, and to demand from them something that they cannot give is, to say the least, not realistic. Maybe it is better to take them the way they are, the way their lives made them; and for the sake of the work, take advantage of the positive qualities that they really have."6z On the eve of battle, the captain approaches the Germans' front line, and here the narrator gives explicit psychological hints of Valosyn's motives and future actions: Hidden from the wind, the commander, clothed in night, chill and stillness, stayed quietly near the breastwork. Twenty steps ahead there was ice barely visible in the brushwood - gray, with frozen grass and the thawed tips of naked branches between hummocks - behind which, on a naked, rough hill, the Germans were hidden, absorbed in their business. And strange as it was, here, where the distance was much shorter than his own control point, the battalion commander felt more at ease. His loneliness disappeared here; it gave way to a feeling of presence and the comfort of a hope that it is possible to experience only at home. This was true: his battalion, habitually and for a long time, had become his home, his fortress and defence - in war he knew no other refuge.63

These intimate lines give the reader a deeper understanding of Valosyn's state of mind than would pages of colourful description. The meagre but vivid details that we learn from his mother's letter also make Valosyn stand out from the average officer. Apparently, "Dabuzynski himself" once praised the young Valosyn's drawings, and the style of his mother's letter suggests that he comes from a highly educated family.64 The other letter - from the captain's beloved, who perished at the beginning of the war, and whose letter reached him posthumously - also points to the reason for Valosyn's tragic loneliness. The letter itself is one of the best examples of Belarusan lyricism in prose. It is written with such emotional power and, at the same time, with such verisimilitude, that one can hardly contain one's surprise at how Bykau, the sober realist, excels in a genre that is unusual for him. My previous criticisms of his earlier female characters I dismissed immediately and for good upon reading this missive. In the letter the sincere love, self-sacrifice, and tenderness

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of the woman who wrote it show her character as vividly and artfully as only a real master can portray. In addition, this fragment, the love letter, is so skillfully blended into the material of the narration that it does not interrupt it; it merely seizes for a moment the inevitable rush of the upcoming events. The battle that unfolds soon after brings even more misfortune to the battalion than its commander had anticipated. On the eve of battle, Huriko, the regimental commander, has promised more support than he could afford to deliver. In addition, his orders are inappropriate for the action. The Germans are stronger and better equipped than expected. As a result, Valosyn loses half of his men in the first assault, and orders the survivors to return to the old position. Infuriated, Huriko replaces him with Markin, who readily takes the commander's position and begins a new assault. The fearful Markin, as usual, does everything by the letter, and is about to finish off the remnants of the battalion's soldiers, laying them open to the deadly fire of the Germans. However, Valosyn, who rejoins his own battalion as a private, first skilfully reorganizes the action and then, when Markin is lightly wounded, takes back the command, despite his own wounds. Under his command, a small group of exhausted and wounded soldiers, among them Markin, takes over one of the Germans' dugouts. A semi-humorous episode is inserted here in the otherwise dramatic narration. A German soldier turns up in the same dugout, and when the others suggest killing him, the Soviet soldier Audziuskin stands up for him: "- No, no way Audziuskin said firmly. He saved me; he is a good Hans. If not for him, I would've died in my own blood in this dugout. Hey, you, Hans, bring some bandages to my commander!"65 The group's situation, however, is far from humorous. Other German dugouts surround them, and the Germans start gassing the dugout occupied by the group. Isolated and with only one gas mask between them (which Markin appropriates), they are miraculously saved by the remnant of Lieutenant Kizievic's company, which attacks the Germans from the rear. The last chapter depicts, once again with a flow of sophisticated lyricism, the sombre picture of Valosyn and the other wounded soldiers burying their dead in a communal grave. The narrator takes the time to allow the captain a farewell to each individual.l An unexpected joy awaits him, however, as soon as they finish their work: the dog, Dzym, has broken his chain and found his way back to his beloved master. Valosyn sends Hutman with the other wounded soldiers to the rear; he himself, though he is wounded more seriously than his

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orderly, returns with Dzym to his battalion, where he wants to continue serving in any capacity. The last chapter ends with a final short paragraph, apparently an archival document, consisting of only one sentence. It is a death certificate that, as Dedkov observes, sounds more like a funeral note addressed to the reader: "The commander of Infantry Regiment No 2.94, Hero of the Soviet Union Major Valosyn Mikalaj Ivanavic, was killed on 24 March 1945 and buried in a communal grave located 350 meters north-west of the town of Steindorf (Eastern Prussia.)."66 Prakliataja vysynia (The accursed hill, 1968) During the seventies Bykau appeared to turn to more straightforward accounts of military exploits, although his skill at portraying physical extremity did not desert him. Arnold McMillin, Belarusian Literature

Prakliataja vysynia also raises the question of choice. This time, however, the protagonist, the Belarusan Vasiukou, also the novella's narrator, is not the one directly compelled to make a choice. Vasiukou is the orderly of the company commander, Anariieii, and the latter's choice is depicted for the reader through Vasiukou's eyes. The plot of the novella unfolds during the last years of the war. Despite the advance of the Soviet armies, the everyday situation for the infantry is far from glorious: We advanced. The weather was such that you could imagine it no better: the entire day it was half-raining, half-snowing. The soil, not yet dry from the spring thaw, was completely soaked; the dirt on the road was mixed with snow, and our wet feet were floundering in the mess. A strong wind, which started in the evening, added to all the above. It was continually changing direction, swirling madly over the road. Sometimes it was impossible to glance ahead - the prickly mass of snow was blinding our eyes. With my head down I glimpsed only fleetingly the dirty military boots of the company commander, Anariieii; on his back the wet ground sheet rose like a hump. The commander was bent over, holding his hood thrown over a homemade cap; angrily swearing under his breath at God and the weather, he marched doggedly along the road. We took no breaks.67

Vasiukou adores his commander, though he sees Ananieu's human weaknesses - the latter can be insensitive, temperamental, and overly strict -

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but this never outweighs his orderly's (and the other soldiers') unquestioning and unshakeable faith in Ananieu's military leadership and capabilities. Vasiukou considers the commander capable enough to hold the rank of a general, or even a marshal. Indeed, thinks the naive Vasiukou, their company is the best in the regiment. Bykau, by emphasizing that the simple outlook of his protagonist is limited to only the one regiment, weaves a sad irony into the narration. The plot of the novella is straightforward: the company has reached a strategically important hill, which is adjacent to a railway station. Ananieu's intelligence reports that the Germans have just started to fortify the hill, and therefore there are still openings where they can attack the enemy. The excitable commander - with the support of his heavily battered but enthusiastic soldiers, who hope for an easy victory - does not want to listen to the sobering words of his friend, the senior lieutenant Hrynievic. The latter, the political commissar of the company, questions the company's position and its lack of sufficient armament. The company is unsupported by other battalions, and left behind by Ananieu's own vanguard; Hrynievic worries that an unforeseen German force, which might arrive from a nearby station, could throw the assault back, even if it is successful. His premonitions come true, but not at once: the company, despite its insufficient resources, is successful in its first attack, defeating a small group of Waffen-ss. The Germans quickly regroup, however, and the support of their skilful troops and weapons enables them to take back their primary position. Ananieu's final attack, fierce but obviously suicidal, results in the annihilation of the regiment's best company. As usual, even short episodes in Bykau's works are heavily populated with differentiated and individualized characters. Thus, we find here the familiar character of the informer Cviatkou, who does everything by the letter, and the junior lieutenant Vanin, his foe. Vanin has saved a little puppy, Pulka, who has become the platoon's pet; when Hrynievic points at this "disorder," Ananieu "barks" at the political commissar and stands up for his junior lieutenant. Prakliataja vysynia also introduces to the reader a clumsy, forty-five-year-old sergeant major, Pilipenka, and the brave soldier Snejder, as well as many other typical soldiers, both named and unnamed. Also present are the negligent new recruit Spak, a fiftyyear-old peasant and father of four who used to work on a collective farm, and his counterpart, a German ss officer captured by Vanin during the first attack. One of the many choices facing the company commander is a moral choice: the Germans, having captured the unfortunate and rather useless Spak, offer to exchange him for the captive s s officer. Ananieu makes this

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choice despite all the odds: he orders Snejder to make the exchange, which the latter flatly refuses to do. When his commander questions him angrily, the soldier simply responds: "he offended me." And here once again the reader is struck by Bykau's artistry. The writer wastes no time on an extensive description of what the German ss officer might have said to the Soviet soldier of Jewish origin; nor does Snejder elaborate on the matter. Without further comment, however, Anafiieu instructs Snejder to carry out his order, giving his soldier a chance to perform a moral deed that should put a mature bigot in his place. Anafiieu carries out this action not only for himself but also so he can look each of his soldiers in the eye. Hrynievic, who is, in general, not a bad person, initially understands his friend's human gesture. He has second thoughts, however, in his capacity as a political officer, and as such he does not have the courage to stick his own neck out. Stopped by a light wound while on his way to the battalion's staff, Hrynievic learns of the commander's decision after the fact. At first he even devises a way to cover for Ananieu, but when he learns that the informer Cviatkou is also on his way to the staff, Hrynievic declares to the commander that he personally washes his hands of the matter. The events, however, have gained their own momentum. Hrynievic is soon fatally wounded in the penultimate German attack, and is left in the care of Vasiukou, who has been lightly wounded in the same assault. It is at this point that Vasiukou discovers that the commissar is also Belarusan. Thoughts fly through his head when he learns of their common nationality: My God, how did this happen? Four months we fought together, every day together - we slept, we ate, and sometimes he even yelled at me a bit, and I never even imagined that he is - my countryman. Why did he never hint about it earlier - there were no other Belarusans in the company besides the two of us? - Why didn't you tell me? -1 reproached him, hurting, as I knelt before him. - What for? Why set us apart? - But it's not setting us apart - setting us apart has nothing to do with it. I would simply have looked at him differently the whole winter, I could have done something pleasant for him - how many times did I pass him over with my attention and care, without which the commissar actually did rather well. He had no orderly, and he had never asked for anything. I was almost overwhelmed with tenderness for him, and fear for his life came back with a new force.68

These feelings of human togetherness and national unity come to the soldier just before the commissar closes his eyes forever. A moment later Vasiukou himself is killed, and both likely end up, together with their

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comrades-in-arms, in a mass grave - perhaps not far from Major Valosyn, whom the reader may see reflected in the unfortunate commander Ananieu. However, Anariieu turns out to be a bad copy of the truly heroic yet selfless Valosyn. The fact of the matter, Bykau shows the reader, is that the company meets its tragic end because of Anafiieu's poor choice. The writer understands that Ananieu, like Valosyn, also feels at one with his command; however, the remnants of his company go into their last battle because Ananieu lets his fears and his own ego lead them to their destruction. Vasil Bykau's lieutenants' prose, as we can see, often takes the individual and mass graves not only as a starting point but also as a neverforgotten axiom. This is his unbreakable premise, his tribute and judgment, his lesson and legacy to his own generation and to generations to come. Bykau brings to life an individual infantryman of junior or middle rank, and this character carries the burden of choice according to individual circumstances. His own personality, Vasilok, is highly transparent and fully reflected in each and every one of Bykau's characters, in particular those who share with the writer his Belarusan origins. Starting with Vasil Hlecyk and continuing with Vasiukoii, the root of the author's tenderness steadily grows in the discourse of his narrative.6? These personal terms add immensely to the fact that Vasil Bykau has said more in his lieutenants' prose than any other writer who has dealt with the theme. Among an excellent but somewhat inconsistent group of battle writers, Bykaii, the chronicler of his beloved infantry, stands out.

C H A P T E R FOUR

Partisan Novels Victims or Victors?

Throughout his writing Bykau has consistently resisted dogmas which ignore real circumstances: like Solzhenitsyn, at much the same time, he has defended those who, merely for the misfortune of having been surrounded by the enemy, were, therefore, classified as traitors. Arnold McMillin, Belarusian Literature

The four short novels from the third volume of the collected works, though written over a period of nine years, have a number of similarities that justify their appearance under the umbrella of a single volume.1 Among these similarities are the works' genre (short novel) and size (approximately one hundred pages); their theme (predominantly about the partisans and/or individuals who participate in the partisan movement); the narrative form (third person); and their characters (young people, children, and women are either the protagonists in all four novels or play a significant role in them). The main quality noted by McMillin in his analysis of Kruhlanski most is also present in the other three novels: "A new departure was marked by ... The Kruhlany Bridge., Bykau's first, typically unconventional, attempt to treat a partisan theme."2 What McMillin means here is that Vasil Bykau was the first writer to show the dark sides of the partisan movement: the banditry, anarchy, and cruelty of some of the partisans' detachments. We should underline that this noticeably unconventional factor in the partisan novels has its roots in all of Bykau's battlefield works: once again, it is derived from Tolstoy's notion that there is no glory in any war. Indeed, in Bykau's depiction, the partisans' war is often imbued with even less justice and dignity than regular military actions. First of all, there is less professionalism in such a war: rules, if they exist at all, are cruel and devious; they serve under-

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equipped and often conniving people working under complex circumstances. Second, partisans' actions involved local people caught between the partisans and the German administration, which often used local police to do "dirty jobs." Local police served as a buffer between the partisans and the occupiers. This police force was frequently made up of degenerates, who often acted under the influence of moonshine. In addition to this, we should remember that both police and partisans recruited their people from the same source, and there were plenty of cases when both forces, partisans and police, employed the same man at different times, and every now and then even simultaneously. At the same time, we should understand that the Belarusan police, like other forms of administration under the Germans, was not at all homogeneous. The Belarusan police leadership was made up of people of a different stripe than the lower-level local gangs of police. Well trained by the Germans, better educated, and often ideologically compelled, the leaders were frequently misunderstood, misinterpreted, and persecuted by everyone: the population, the Bolsheviks, and the German administration. Vasil Bykau could not know many of the specifics and details of the actions at that time in Belarus because, as we know, he was then fighting in the regular army. Nor did he have access to the archives in postwar Belarus and Germany, both of which have only just recently been opened to scholars; it was Bykau's creative intuition and personal research that made it possible for him to give his individual artistic account of the partisan's movement in Belarus. We should also keep in mind that Vasil Bykau's "partisan" theme came to life after he had achieved a considerable degree of mastery in his battlefield stories. Belarus under Occupation At this point we will digress briefly in order to describe what happened in Belarus economically, socially, culturally, politically, militarily, in terms of so-called "collaboration," and of course, regarding human lives and deaths. Most of the following data, unless stated otherwise, was obtained from the National Archives of Belarus.3 An additional source was the data compiled by the Soviet government both locally collected and composed from what was left by the occupiers. The Extraordinary State Commission (ESC) was launched in 1943 in order to investigate the crimes of the Nazi Occupation in the former USSR immediately after the Stalingrad victory. The ESC started to collect its data on Belarus at the beginning of 1944. According to the data (fo-

87 Partisan Novels: Victims or Victors?

cusing mainly on the misdeeds of the Nazi German invaders, and rarely including collaborators), Belarus suffered more in this war than any other European country. The financial damage to Belarus attributed to the Occupation is devastating: it is estimated at 75 trillion rubles (at 1940 values), which is thirty-five times more than the entire Belarusan budget of the pre-war year 1940. The first budget year that followed the unification of eastern and central Belarus with its western territories (after the Munich pact) was 1940. Out of two hundred and seventy towns and district townships, two hundred and nine were burned down, demolished, or looted. Miensk, Homel, Brest, and Viciebsk were 85 to 90 per cent damaged, and 9,200 villages were destroyed. At 1941 values, the total losses in industry amounted to over six trillion rubles. Of the big power stations, 85 per cent were either taken to Germany or demolished, as were 10,338 industrial enterprises. Agriculture suffered enormously: ten thousand collective farms, ninety-two state farms, 316 machine and tractor stations, and 1,200 rural buildings (there is no complete data on the dwelling houses of peasants) vanished from the Belarusan agricultural economy. In short, property damage to agriculture amounted to 22.5 trillion rubles. Economic losses in educational institutions are reckoned at 4.6 trillion rubles. Over 80 per cent of schools were demolished. The State Library of Belarus, which had two million volumes by the beginning of the war, lost one and a half million by its end, and at present has still not yet recovered a million books, some of them unique and antique manuscripts. Ten Belarusan museums were destroyed completely, and eight were looted. The world-famous collection of sixteenth- to twentiethcentury Slucak sashes has disappeared without a trace. A priceless national relic, the Cross of Eufrasirinia of Polack, which has been the pride of the Belarusan nation since its creation in 1161, is one of the most significant symbols of cultural and religious loss for Belarusans. All this loss and suffering, however painful economically - and still having an effect sixty-five years later - cannot be even remotely compared to the human loss. We still do not know the exact numbers of those who perished during the World War Two. When I was growing up in Belarus, the official numbers were expressed in the words of a popular song: "every fourth Belarusan is lying in a grave." Since the turn of the current century, however, it has been recognized that Belarusan fatalities were underestimated, and that the data that came from the row camps was incorrect as well. This famous lyric must now be revised from a quarter to a third, since many scholars believe that more than three million Belarusans were annihilated between 1941 and 1945.

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Present-day Belarusan scholars state that this number includes over 763,000 Jews who perished in Belarus. There were 186 ghettos in Belarus during the war. In one of them, the Miensk ghetto, there was a concentration of 100,000 Jews, only a few of whom escaped death. It should be taken into account that the Belarusans shared their lands with Jews, Lithuanians, Poles, Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, and other nations, with a history of remarkably little animosity between the ethnic communities. Whatever is recorded about the meagre history of pogroms in Belarus can be attributed to, and was rooted in, the insinuations of the tsarist authorities; Cossacks invited by the ruling bodies implemented the pogroms. Unlike some areas of Russia and Ukraine, such cases were neither initiated nor organized by the local population. The Slucak rebellion of 1918 may be the only time during which Belarusans initiated an antiJewish action before World War Two, and even during this revolt there is only one recorded case of death.4 In any event, the statistics show that 9.2, million people were living in this country before the war: only 6.3 million populated Belarus by the end of 1945. The German Wehrmacht, the Army Group called "Centre,"5 occupied Belarus by September of 1941. The Nazis divided Belarusan territories into five major areas: General Okrug "Belarus"6; Rear Section of the "Centre" Army Group?; Okrug "Bialystok," formerly East Prussia8; Reich Commissariat "Ukraine"^; and General Okrug "Lithuania."10 The Reich Commissariat "Ostland" encompassed the following administrating divisions: Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, with its administrative centre in Riga. The senior ruling groups were formed in Berlin in the early months of the war: the Reichsministerium (Imperial Ministry of the Occupied Eastern Territories),11 the "Centre" Army Group Headquarters,12 the Reich Commissariat Ostland,^ the General Commissariat of Belarus,14 and the Nebenbureau.1* There were four major military bodies in the Belarusan territories during the war: Waffen-ss troops, the Wehrmacht, the Police, and the Abwehr.16 Ortskommandanturen1? were subordinate to Feldkommandanturen.18 The four major military bodies shared the same task, since their activities were: to combat partisans; to organize punitive actions against partisans and the local population; to protect communications, military objects, and POW camps; to provide intelligence and counter-intelligence services; to confiscate agricultural goods; and to disseminate propaganda. The gendarmerie1? became an integral part of the police bodies; in the chain of command, however, it took only fourth place, after the ss

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troops,10 security police/1 and security service (SD). German police units, police defence task forces, and auxiliary police detachments followed the gendarmerie in that chain. The local auxiliary police (Ordnungsdienst, or OD) 2 - 2 was established early in July 1941, less than a month after the invasion, and for the most part depended on local collaboration. "Collaboration" has two closely related but distinct meanings. First, it means: "to work together, especially in some literary, artistic, or scientific undertaking." The second, pejorative meaning is "to cooperate with an enemy invader. "^3 With the recent opening of most of the archives, data has appeared that often bears witness to a much more complicated phenomenon of collaboration in Belarus and gives a more even-handed understanding of what was going on in the country at that time. The official institutions that collaborated with the occupiers included: the Belarusan People's Self-assistance (BPs) z 4; the Belarusan Corps of SelfDefence (fics) 2 -*; the Belarusan Youth Union (BYu) 2 - 6 ; the Belarusan Trust Rada (BTR) 2 ?; the Belarusan Central Rada (BCR) 28 ; and the Belarusan Regional Defence (BRD). 2 ? The military detachments of the BRD were rarely used to fight the partisan detachments; if they did so, they would have been considered the initiators of civil war in Belarus. The question is extremely complex, however, and the actual data, as well as logic, tells us that such a perception is wrong: the BRD was formed only in early March of 1944, while the partisan movement began early in the war, at the time of the German creation of the first Jewish ghettos.3° The bloody war pounded Belarus from the very beginning of the occupation until its end. Its intensity and the volume of local involvement created a situation often close to civil war. As history shows, every side in a civil war claims a just cause; the victory, however, no matter how much blood has been shed, is clearly on one side only. The significant impact that the partisan movement in Belarus made on the results of the Second Patriotic War is comparable (if not even greater) with the Allies' opening of the second front during World War Two. The resistance of the Belarusans began in the early days of the German invasion, and was manifested in different forms: individual and group activities were expressed in non-compliance with the occupiers and in active armed attacks. By July 1941, the partisan movement had almost sixty independent groups, each comprising twenty to forty men further subdivided into two or three units. The Soviet-controlled territories were used as training grounds for new partisan formations and detachments. By September 1941,430 detachments with more than eight thousand men were trained in eastern Belarus alone (which was not

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yet occupied). By April 1942. the Central Committee of the Communist Party issued a resolution establishing Special Belarusan Partisan Training; 1,2.55 detachments had been established by this time. About three thousand men went through such training in the region of Vladimir. The staff of the Central Headquarters of the Soviet Armed Forces became the commanding body of the Central Headquarters of the Partisan Movement, headed by Panamarenka from May 1942. In September 1942,, the Belarusan Headquarters of the Partisan Movement was established under P. Kalinin's leadership. The Belarusan School of Partisan Training was formed in November 1942, and reorganized as the Reserve Training Centre in September 1943. By that time, the understanding of the strategic importance of the Belarusan partisan movement was not only fully realized by the centre of the Soviet military command but had its full ideological, financial, and military support. The partisan units were formed and operated on army principles from the beginning. They were organized into partisan brigades, each of which had from three to ten detachments. In total, there were 199 active partisan brigades in Belarus. A brigade's activity would cover one or two districts. In the territories of Miensk, Mahilyou, and Viciebsk, there were fourteen regiments, which did not differ much from brigades in terms of their arms and numbers but had significantly more militarily trained personnel than brigades. The partisans' military success became one of the main factors in the liberation of Belarus. Partisans controlled 60 per cent of Belarusan territory by the end of 1943. They fought not only police and defence services but also regular German troops. There were ten German divisions, air forces, tank units, and three armies that were engaged at this war with Belarusan partisans. Partisans destroyed 22,0 enemy stations and garrisons, as well as 211,000 kilometres of railway, 2,171 entire trains, 295 railway bridges, six armoured trains, and thirty-two water-pumping stations. Partisans were closely connected to a forceful underground movement that was especially strong in densely populated areas. About seventy thousand Belarusans took an active part in the underground. In Western Belarus, the Polish Army Krajova, which was commanded from London by the government in exile, supported the local forces; its soldiers were fighting the same war as the Belarusan underground and partisans. The majority of the population of the country - but not its entirety was supportive of the partisan cause. In his short partisan novels - in particular, Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany bridge), Abielisk (The monument), Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack), and Pajsci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return) - Bykau portrays

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the intimate episodes and private lives of those who lived in these changing and troubled times through the eyes of the protagonists, women, and children who inhabit the stories. Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany bridge, 1969)

Kruhlanski most is mainly about the tragic fate of two children: one, Micia, is killed, deceived by older partisans; the fate of the other, the orphaned teenager Sciopka Taukac, depends on the unknown judgment of some mysterious commissar. McMillin expresses his thoughts about Sciopka Taukac as follows: The point of view is that of Sciopka Taukac, a simple orphaned 17-year-old youths1 whose miserable earlier life Bykau manages to sketch in gradually, despite the tenseness of the action. Puny and clumsy, he has joined the partisans to escape from occupied villages, but is mocked and bullied by the other two, older, partisans, particular Brytvin, a figure who, while not overtly villainous, nonetheless pursues ruthlessly the idea that the end justifies the means: the very idea which, in Bykau's eyes, lay behind the Nazi policies against which the Soviet people were struggling.3Z

Indeed, Sciopka Taukac's life - harsh, physically unprotected, and full of emotional mistreatment - could have made an unfeeling idiot of him. Instead, the boy courageously stands up to Brytvin's cruelty, and is likely to pay with his own life for trying to punish Brytvin for the disgraceful deed that took the life of the fifteen-year-old Micia. Lazar' Lazarev considers Kruhlanski most to be one of Bykau's most important statements, where the writer not only takes an absolute moral stand against cruelty and indecency but patiently and scrupulously analyzes evil and its consequences. In his critique of the short novel, Lazarev combines different sources: together with Ales Adamovic's knowledgeable reminiscences, he often brings in Denis Davydov's treatise about the partisan movement during the First Patriotic War.3 3 Lazarev also argues with literary critics like Motiashov (a typical Soviet literary reviewer), who over the years rendered negative judgments of Kruhlanski most. Kruhlanski most starts with an inversion of events: Sciopka Taukac, under guard, is recalling his recent ordeal. Four partisans were asked to burn the bridge near a place called Kruhliany. The bridge was wooden, and of no serious military value to any of the sides. It was rarely guarded, and partisans considered this task more of a routine chore than a risky action. They did not even carry explosives, but only a canister of

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gasoline. Maslakoii, an experienced army officer, who had hand-picked his three companions, led the group. He had chosen Taukac first of all, because he had worked with the boy earlier and knew that despite his edgy and sometimes difficult nature, Taukac was an experienced and devoted partisan. Maslakou never missed a chance to tease Taukac, but he did so jokingly and respected the boy, who in turn appreciated Maslakou's invitation to this action, which, Taukac anticipated, would make him proud. Danila Spak, a local peasant, was needed as a navigator, while the fourth partisan, Brytvin, had his own agenda. Brytvin had recently been found at fault by the partisan authorities: he had shot a partisan for alleged but unproven crimes, and had been temporarily removed from his company's commanding post. He participated in the action only to regain his commission. Brytvin never feels or acts like a regular private; rather, he behaves as if he is a legitimate commander. The cunning Danila Spak also wants to get something out of this trip: his niece lives nearby, and he hopes she will accommodate him by providing £pak with "staff." So it is clear from the very beginning of the narration that of the four partisans only two, Taukac and Maslakou, pursue their goal with sincerity. When the two of them reach the bridge (the other two having found an excuse to stay at the rear), Maslakou is discovered and mortally wounded. Brytvin, who assumed command after the leader's demise, summoned Micia, a teenager who had crossed their way and volunteered to help the partisans, for the operation: his father was serving in the police, and the boy was ashamed of him. Brytvin had the boy explode the bridge, and Micia lost his life. Taukac, who assisted Micia, knew nothing of the devilish plan that Brytvin had devised: Polizei had taken up guarding the bridge. As soon as Sciopka Taukac realized that Micia's demise was planned, and that Brytvin and Spak would reap the benefits of the operation, he stood up to Brytvin, accidentally shooting him while Brytvin was trying to take Taukac's gun from him. Afterwards, despite his wound, Brytvin decided to pacify Taukac and sent Spak to him to try and make peace with the boy, who declined their advances and decided to wait for the commissar's judgment, which, he hoped, would restore justice. The plot of the novel, simple as it seems, is strengthened by what Lazarev calls the story within a story, in which almost every major protagonist has his own tale. Though at first these stories seem to be unrelated to the narration of this short novel, the reader of Kruhlanski most fully realizes by the end of the book how necessary and apt each of the stories told is to the moral of the novel. Maslakou tells the first story, about the army tank brigade leader, Preabrazenski, who joined the

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partisan detachment together with five of his former subordinates. Maslakou was deputy commander of the detachment, and offered the former brigade leader a higher position in the group of forty men. Preabrazenski declined the offer, saying that he was here to fight the Nazis and would be satisfied to be a regular member of the detachment that had been formed without him. Preabrazenski, a middle-aged, professional soldier, came to the Soviet army after having served in the tsar's army. When Preabrazenski, Maslakou, and a couple of other partisans were denounced to the police by a neighbour of their farmstead hosts, Preabrazenski gave himself up in order to save the children of their hosts from execution. Maslakou is obviously taken by Preabrazenski's sense of honour and courage. Thus, he answers Brytvin's rude comment about the "too-sensitive" brigade leader: "You know," said Maslakou after a thought, "This is a moral question. For one, it is only a matter of saving his own skin, and everything else can go to hell. For another, everything should go according to one's clear conscience."34 Brytvin himself tells the second story immediately after they lose Maslakou. This story is about a Belarusan teacher, Liaukovic: teachers, as we have already noted, are Bykau's favourite characters. While Brytvin talks about this character with contempt, he also refers to Liaukovic's high moral qualities, among which was taking care of the local population. To his surprise, Brytvin recognized that Liaukovic was very popular with the locals but he could not understand that the mutual trust that existed between the teacher (who became that district's school inspector before the war) and the residents came from exactly the type of moral position that is incomprehensible to him. Liaukovic fell into a German ambush by chance, and since the Germans had no reason to hold him, he could have bought his life with a little lie. However, he was hanged for his refusal to agree with a German officer about Hitler's inevitable victory. These two auxiliary stories, as analyzed by Lazarev, evoke different reactions from the listeners, and reveal a great deal about each of the characters who present the story and about those who listen to it. Thus, Spak is indifferent, Sciopka Taukac is respectful, and Brytvin despises "intellectuals," while Maslakou's position is clearly closer to Taukac's: they both respect goodness, and do not believe that the ends justify the means. Lazarev's emotional involvement, and his disagreement with Soviet critics like Motiashov, is based on his close personal and professional affinity with Bykau. This affinity is natural for these contemporaries, both heavily wounded veterans who came to literature from their firsthand experience of war. Thus Lazarev's indignation at Motiashov's

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statement that Brytvin is the only positive character in the novel is both professional and personal: "Building his indictments against Kruhlanski most on the shaky sand of sophisms, for the sake of self-importance, he renames sand as granite, and replaces the white color with black. But at the moment when one returns to the novel and reads it once again, sand turns out to be sand, white is white, and black is black."35 Twenty-two years ago, when Lazarev published his book on Bykau, he was reluctant to accept Ales Adamovic's assertion that Bykau had used the genre of the parable from the end of the 19605. Adamovic considered Kruhlanski most to be Bykau's starting point for the full use of this genre: "Parable-type" writings in realistic literature work in different ways. However, the genre's traditional peculiarity involves moral conclusions, the aspiration to absolute truth, multiple meanings of situations and images. Like in a traditional parable, which requires "taking away the window dressing," bare thought and morality, conventional characters and situations, there is, however, a different kind of parable: this is also a "parable" (by its bare thought and sharp "moral") but with extremely realistic circumstances and with all the possible richness of "a soul's dialectic."36

Bykau's later deep involvement in the genre of parable, which will be considered and analyzed in a later chapter, confirms Adamovic's earlier insights. Although this is probably not yet the place to discuss the genre of parable in its entirety, and its application to Vasil Bykau's earlier creative works, the fact that Adamovic opened the window towards a better understanding of Bykau's literature was confirmed long before literary criticism caught up with the writer. Thus, it is not only Sciopka Taukac's "soul's dialectic," didacticism, or the struggle of evil against good that produce the atmosphere of the parable in Kruhlanski most: the edge of reality, some fairy-tale elements with clear morals for all the ages, also bring this short novel closer to the genre. Abielisk (The monument, 1971) There is not a single "partisan" novella where children are not involved ... War is always about human suffering, but it is the suffering and death of children that tortures Bykau's protagonists the most... Maybe out of everything that their military fate brings to them, this thought, this memory, this guilt for all the bitter and dreadful things that childhood brought to their children became the most difficult thing for them to bear. V. Kosko, in A. Shagalov's Vasil' Bykov: Novellas about the War

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The plot of the next short novel, Abielisk, concentrates almost entirely on the role of a teacher as both an educator and a moral example for his students. This is strengthened by a sober account of the awful fate and demise of a group of schoolchildren and their teacher, an event that actually took place. Abielisk continues to evoke from critics passionate reactions to the questions raised in this short novel, mainly What is moral truth? The author, who apparently knows the answer, ends his work with an address to the reader: "And now it is up to the reader. Let him come to a decision. Everyone should judge according to his point of view, his understanding of war, heroism, moral duty and history. "37 Abielisk is one of Bykaii's first literary works where the past is not shown merely as a flashback that helps to depict the present life of a character, or explains a character's nature. The past that involves the war is as powerful as the present (if not more so) in the narration and the structure of the novella. In fact, ideas of the continuity and complete interdependence of events and morals are incessantly propagated in Abielisk, and are manifested in different ways. The novel is a first-person narration strengthened with many monologues and dialogues by the participants in events. Such artistic devices are by now habitual for this author, as is the method of inversion Bykau uses in the short novel. The narrator's acquaintance tells him casually about the death of Miklasevic, a thirty-four-year-old village schoolteacher. This news disturbs the narrator, who immediately feels a pang of guilt over an unfulfilled promise to the teacher: Miklasevic had asked his help to settle some affair related to the war. When the narrator hurries to the village, he manages only to to get to the wake, where he meets, among others, the head of the district educational centre, Ksiandzoii, and the retired teacher Tkacuk. The narrator leaves the gathering with the latter, who little by little recounts the tragic story of two educators, Pauka Miklasevic, and his teacher, Ales Maroz. Warmed by his memories of both, Tkacuk expresses his thoughts about both the need and the naturalness of continuity in life, and how they were confirmed in the case of the two teachers: "It is true, Maroz wasn't his father, but the connection was there. Hard to believe! At times I looked and couldn't hold back my joy: as if he were the brother to that Maroz Ales Ivanavic. Everything: and character, and kindness, and high principles ... And now ... Though, it couldn't be otherwise, something will remain there of Maroz, it is impossible to imagine that nothing will remain ... These things do not disappear. It will grow."38 What "will grow," Tkacuk reveals further on in his story, is how the former student inherited and practised the methods and worldview, as well as the philosophy, of Maroz. He tells the narrator how innovative

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and untraditional Maroz's teaching methods and philosophy were, especially for the Soviet educational system, and in particular for its first steps in the western territories, which were united with Belarus only in 1939. Tkacuk describes in detail how Maroz was interested above all in educating his pupils to become free-thinking individuals, rather than creating blockheads with excellent marks. Apparently, one of them, Miklasevic, continued this tradition. Miklasevic, who despite his youth is also a figure from the past, connects the present, past, and even future events of the story's plot. Miklasevic had lost his mother when he was a young child; his stepmother, and particularly his father, beat him constantly and sadistically. Maroz took the child from that unhappy home and stood up to the authorities, who took the father's side. Later on, when this part of Belarus was occupied, Maroz continued his school duties; that alone was seen as a betrayal by the partisans. However, this misunderstanding was soon cleared up, and the teacher, with his radio (given to him by one of the peasants), became an invaluable source of information and help to the partisans. Every local knew what Maroz was doing, and no one ever betrayed him. One day, a group of his pupils, without confiding in him, organized a subversive activity; as soon as the police investigation began, Maroz, having been warned, left for the partisans. When the police declared that the children would be freed if Maroz surrendered, the teacher, although assuming that they were lying, nevertheless went back to the village, where he shared the fate of his students. He comforted them to the end, and the locals, who had to be present at the execution, lamented not only the lives of the children but that of their teacher, too. On the way to execution, Maroz assisted Miklasevic, who was one of the group, in his miraculous escape from the rope. During the escape, Miklasevic was shot and tossed into a ditch, seemingly dead, by a policeman whom the locals called Cain. Miklasevic survived, however, and was found and nurtured back to health by his father's family, whose attitude toward the boy had apparently improved. His serious wound and the time spend in the ditch finally killed Miklasevic over a decade later. That time, however, was enough for him to erect a monument to his school friends, and more importantly, to rehabilitate his teacher's name and add it to the monument. One does not have to go far to discover Bykau's romantic and nostalgic ideas about village teachers in Belarus. These ideas are often portrayed, if not promoted by Bykau, as the theme of choice throughout the writer's literary career. Tkacuk, who often assumes the role of the narrator in the sections when Maroz and his students are involved, elaborates:

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And what did village teachers in our schools do, what did it mean for our peasants' country back then, living in darkness in the tsar's time, under Polish dominance, during the war, and last but not least, after the war? Ask any minor now what he wants to be when he grows up and he will answer: an engineer, a doctor, a pilot, even an astronaut. Yes, they have such a chance in our times. And it's a fact that in some cases it comes true, even an astronaut... And before? Back then, when a boy's decency became evident, and in addition he was a good student, what did the adults say about him? That he would grow up to become a teacher. And that was the highest praise. Of course, not everyone who was capable could reach the status of a teacher, but it was something to aspire to, the horizon of a living dream. It was the right thing to do, and not because it was prestigious or easy. Were the wages good? God forbid a teacher's bread, particularly in the village, especially back in those years. Hunger, poverty, corners in stranger's homes, village backwoods, and in the end - an early grave from consumption ... And nevertheless, I tell you, there was nothing more important and useful than this everyday, quiet, unnoticed work of thousands of unknown hands in this spiritual field of education. For what we are today as a nation and citizens, I think, the credit goes first to the village teachers. Maybe I am mistaken, but this is my firm belief.?9

Lazarev rejects the point of view of many who consider Tkacuk to be Bykau's mouthpiece. I would tend to agree with the "many" in this matter; Lazarev's argument in that particular case, which is never very clearly formulated, seems to be as follows: of course this protagonist is a very powerful spokesperson, he argues, but he does not express Bykau's views. According to Lazarev, Tkacuk contradicts Tolstoy's beliefs about peasants' education, and therefore he is wrong. In fact, Tolstoy, and to a lesser degree Dostoevsky, are always mentioned when the philosophy and characters of the two teachers, Maroz and Miklasevic, are described in the novella. Both of these nineteenthcentury writers, particularly in their early artistic works, considered education a primary force in the creation of the humanity and moral stance of any nation. However, in their journalistic works and public appearances they often proclaimed different positions. Tolstoy encouraged the intelligentsia and educated classes to learn from the peasants; Bykau, however, thinks very differently. And here, if you will, is the core of Bykau's maximalism and his disagreement with Tolstoy, which is so powerfully stated in the novel. In his public appearances, his private conversations, and in particular, in his literary works, Bykau promotes the idea that democracy, decency, humility, and knowledge are mostly acquired through education; therefore all of the above notions can be and should

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be taught. Educators, in Vasil Bykau's view, are the most important commodities in any society, and Belarusan society is no exception. According to the writer, gifted teachers like Maroz and Miklasevic not only assist good in its struggle with evil but are also instrumental in the creation and promotion of humanitarian values. Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack, 1975) He mastered the truth: life does not forgive duplicity, timeserving, hypocrisy, spiritual cowardice and the deafness of a soul, and truth is on the side of those who act as conscience demands and do not betray their principles, even at the cost of their lives. A. Shagalov, Vasil' Bykov: Novellas about the War

Most of the analyses of Voucaja zhraja assume that the novel's main protagonist, Liaiichuk, does not have an antagonist to balance the narration. Dedkov and Lazarev consider this to be a sign of maturity in the author, who reached a level of sophistication that allowed him to structure the novel around one positive character. Others, like Shagalov, see such a phenomenon in Bykau's work as retrogressive.4° In my view, however, there is a strongly pronounced collective anti-hero in the novella: the "pack of wolves," which consists of occupiers, police, and a few traitors. These characters, each of whom functions separately in the narrative, combine and acquire the qualities of a single foe through many collectively performed negative acts. In other words, since the occupiers, the police, and the collaborators serve the same purpose, they can be counted as one entity: at least this is how the partisans perceive them. In this respect, Liauchuk can be considered a positive character, not because he is a "walking-talking" hero by nature, but rather as a contrast to the "pack of wolves." Indeed, there are not many outstanding or absolutely positive features in Liauchuk's character; neither can he be considered a favourite of fortune. Liauchuk, who lost his hand during one of the partisans' actions, has very little in his life that he can be proud of: he has not done anything his way, he has no initiative, and most of his life he has simply gone with the mainstream. There are two events in Liauchuk's otherwise ordinary life, however, that single him out: he is a war invalid who fought for the right cause, and he saves a baby in deadly danger from the "pack of wolves." In both

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cases there is a conscious choice on his part. In the first situation, though, he is only one of many who made the right choice, and he was lucky enough to be on the winning side. The second deed, which still fulfils his life thirty years later, is exceptional and extraordinary: he did not let his enemies (Germans and the police) take the newborn boy's life. The reader learns that this invalid and retired collective farmer has come to the capital on a quest to find the person he saved thirty years ago and then lost track of. Viktar Platonau, now an adult, is not home at first. Liauchuk, waiting for him on a bench, thinks about the past: Well, his thoughts were going back to his past, which connected him, it seemed, to that person forever. He remembered it all as if it had happened only yesterday - three decades did not lessen his persistant memory, especially as that was the brightest, and maybe the most important, in his life. He rethought, recollected, re-evaluated this past, and every time he would consider it anew. Some things from his past evoked a quiet shame for acts that were, perhaps, not entirely kosher by today's standards; some were surprising, but others were his honour, the substance of his modest battlefield worth. And altogether it constituted his human essence, with which he was living out his days.41

While the old man is waiting on the bench, the third-person narration moves the reader back to the partisans' trenches, where our protagonist finds himself under the German blockade, recently but only lightly wounded. As soon as a doctor attends to his wound, Liauchuk receives an order from the brigade's new head of staff, who has replaced his friend, the recently killed Platonau. The order is as follows: with the help of an older partisan, Hrybaed, Liauchuk is to evacuate Cichanaii, a heavily wounded partisan, and Klava, a radio operator sent by Moscow, who is about to give birth to Platonau's child. This becomes a serious ordeal, and takes the lives of Cichanau, Hrybaed, and later, Klava. Kudraucou, a traitor and a German agent who was responsible for Platonau's death, hunts the partisans. Liauchuk, wounded once again, makes an incredible effort; after hiding with Klava's baby in the marshes under deadly fire, he saves the newborn. Upon his return to the partisans, he is immediately summoned for further service; before parting for what turns out to be thirty years, he is able only to name the baby in a hurry. He baptizes him Viktar, like the boy's father, Captain Viktar Platonau. Though Cichanau, Hrybaed, and even Klava, like every other protagonist in the novel besides Liauchuk, play an auxiliary role in the narrative, each individual is personalized with his or her own story. The most

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heartbreaking story is that of Hrybaed, who was denounced by a neighbour for his collaboration with the partisans, and immediately lost his mother, wife, four daughters, and a son. His young son Valodzka, who survived the first reprisal, was killed later, and this loss became Hrybaed's deepest pain and tragedy. Experienced in all manner of domestic work, he also delivers Klava's baby; this act temporarily brings life back to this man who soon after shares the fate of the rest of his family. Klava, a beautiful, noble, and romantic young woman who lived a sheltered life before the war, has become the object of dreams and desire for almost all of the young and unmarried members of the brigade, including Liauchuk and the traitor Kudraucou. Her love affair with the captain, however, protects her from the advances of others. Her latest experiences of partisan war have shaken Klava: she cannot understand why so many people, including the partisans and their antagonists, behave so inhumanely, and questions Hrybaed and Liauchuk, her companions: - Well, let the Germans thrash us ... But what about the others! Our own people! How could they raise a hand? - They could and they do - Liauchuk responded, and sat down straight. - As soon as they accepted, put on a uniform, took guns, they had to do whatever they were told. Now they can't refuse. - But how could they accept in the first place? - Klava could not understand. - They carried grudges against the Soviets. They felt insulted by them and went to the Germans, and they were nice at first: "yes? 7es" ~ they showed compassion and armed them. And they ordered: "bang-bang!" - Everything starts with a little thing.4Z

Hrybaed adds that not all Germans are evil; there are those who were drafted against their will and are not against the population. He tells a story about one German soldier who saved a boy. This story, concise and unexpected, plays an important role in the short novel. Once again the author leads the reader to the most treasured quality of humanity human kindness - and demonstrates that this quality alone knows no borders or national distinctions, and therefore represents an absolute value. Liauchuk, for example, who, as a young partisan, often comments on the stupidity of kindness and tolerance during the war, changes his mind later on. He understands the actual importance of what he instinctively acted upon with the child, and his kindness and humanity become his moral survival and protection. In his last years, the fact that Liauchuk saved the life of the baby is the only thing that he wants to remember. For this deed alone he is rewarded: Liauchuk and Viktar finally meet.

101 Partisan Novels: Victims or Victors? Pajsci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return,

1978)

Although he himself was never a partisan, Bykau captures the atmosphere and dilemmas of partisan life with great skill, entirely avoiding the romanticism with which this theme has often been treated in Belarusan literature. Arnold McMillin, Belarusian Literature

McMillin and Dedkov, as well as other literary critics, feel that though Pajsci i nie viarnucca deals with the fate of a young girl during the war, the major concern of the short novel is a deep analysis of treachery and betrayal. In these terms, the work continues to exercise the question of choice. This question, which recurs in the plots of Bykau's battlefield and partisan stories, examines the same territory explored by existentialists. Later, when we consider Bykau's close affinities with the French philosophers, it will be useful to keep in mind that the similarities in thought and literary practice can be traced to Vasil Bykau's earlier military and partisan literature. It is typical of Bykau's partisan novels to involve all genders and ages in the plot; here, too, there is a child, Valodzka-ferryman, who despite his youth undertakes a job requiring the strength of a bull. Valodzka crosses Nyoman, a dangerous river, in order to transport partisans from the area they control to the side controlled by the Germans and the police. The courage, honesty, and strength of this little fellow is set in contrast with that of Anton Halubin, a mature man and Soviet partisan, who turns out to be a deserter, a traitor, and a coward. The story starts one late fall day: with the marches already covered by snow, Zosia Narejka is on her way home. She is a partisan with orders to make connections with the underground and to perform some intelligence service. The young woman is frightened by the harshness of nature around her, and by the intuitive feeling that she is being followed. Her worst fears are not realized, and instead she is pleasantly surprised: it is a fellow-partisan, Anton Halubin, on whom she has a crush, who has followed her. Halubin seduces Zosia Narejka by making her believe that he has left the partisan camp only to protect her, the woman he loves madly. She finds out only later that in reality he is disillusioned with the Soviet defeats; thinking that the Germans have already taken Stalingrad, he is using her as a pretext to start some kind of a peaceful life. Halubin, who believes in his irresistible masculinity, plans to start a family with the pretty young woman, who also happens to have a base that he needs:

102 Vasil Bykau

her mother is a resident in a township. The deserter is also seriously considering switching sides and serving as a member of the Polizei. Zosia could be useful to him by sharing everything she knows about the underground and partisans. The young woman, however, does not share his views, and as soon as she realizes her mistake, she starts to think of Halubin as her enemy. In the words of McMillin, "The contrast between the principled girl and her 'captor' is manifest, but what makes the book particularly interesting is the author's insight into the mentality of the deserter, into the thinking by which he justifies to himself his actions."43 Indeed, as Dedkov notes, Halubin as a protagonist appears in Bykau's work after Brytvin, Sachno, and Rybak, becoming the mature example of a category of negative character that emerges as an archetype in the author's oeuvre. Bykau's psychological insights into the process of how a traitor is formed appear casual, but they are complicated and rich in essence. Bykau carefully reveals to the reader that in the case of Anton Halubin (who seems a very likeable fellow at the beginning of the narrative), the essence of his action lies in his basic survival instinct. Although earlier the reader finds the same motivation in Brytvin, Sachno, and Rybak, Halubin is the first in this line to encompass a complex tangle of instincts and fantasies, on the basis of which his character and behaviour are formed. He is an excellent and dutiful soldier, who sincerely mourns the death of Kuzniacou, the detachment's commander: "Halubin was almost tearful when he thought about Kuzniacou, who was a brave and knowledgeable leader; Anton loved him sincerely, and cared greatly for this excellent person, his commander. Whether for business, reconnaissance, a military action, or simply for a ride, he always took along six partisans, and Halubin was also always with them. Now, it seemed, no one remained of that group. "44 Despite this lament, Halubin accepts no personal blame for not trying to save his beloved and wounded commander. His comrades reproach him, and he is also reduced to the ranks afterwards for making no attempt to help. Halubin considers his conscience clear, and there is no sign of remorse in his behaviour: first he had to save himself. And this is where the author says so much by saying so little. This is exactly what the traitor's nature is all about: the only real compassion Halubin has is for himself; his own skin is his only worry under any circumstances. The straw that breaks the camel's back for Halubin seems to be his assumption that the Germans have taken Stalingrad; he is now morally ready for any excuse to try his luck in the other camp. Therefore his change of heart towards Zosia Narejka, whom he sincerely liked and had dreamed of even back in the partisans' camp, should not surprise the

103 Partisan Novels: Victims or Victors?

reader. The young woman's noble heart is shaken by his revelations, and though she adamantly rejects his suggestion that she betray her comrades and the domestic bliss that her lover tries to seduce her with - she still hopes for his redemption. She even allows him to prove himself to a group of partisans that they have met on their way, after he has beaten her and was prepared to give her up to the police as a token of his future service. Halubin, however, goes to his end in betrayal: after the partisans' action has failed, and he is once again left alone with Zosia Narejka, he spends his penultimate bullet on her, after she finally refuses - despite everything they have gone through together - to join him. There is a strongly pronounced element of the supernatural in the narrative of this short novel. It manifests itself three times in Pafsci i nie viarnucca, and yet somehow this element has been overlooked by critics. All three times, this element is connected with Zosia Narejka. First she has a dream that is full of premonitions. She dreams of someone who is simultaneously Anton Halubin and someone else: "However, he became like some unstable entity, as if devil and angel in one, and for Zosia the most torturous thing was this instability."45 The end of this dream turns into a nightmare, when the devil wins over the angel in this entity, and the young woman finds herself between the devil and an abyss. When the devil stretches his claw to Zosia, she prefers the abyss: "A few seconds before she was about to be smashed in the abyss, she felt distinctly that she would die; however, just then, she woke up."46 This dream is easy to decode as a warning not to make a deal with the devil. The second element that plays the role of a messenger of the supernatural in the narrative also comes in a dream, and carries a swarm of emotions, including foreboding. This dream takes almost two pages of description and is full of events and symbols. It happens after Anton Halubin ties up his lover, with the intention of bringing her to the police. In his mind, Halubin justifies his actions by reasoning that the inexperienced and naive Zosia will end up arrested anyway; but if he brings her, that will be a different matter: "Wouldn't it be better for her and others if she, without a chance to meet anyone, simply got to his friend Kapycki, and by this alone did Halubin a service?"47 Afterwards there follow the typical deliberations of a man who believes that conscience is a property of weaklings. Halubin prefers to think of himself as a strong man. Meanwhile, Zosia, physically weak and exhausted, falls asleep unexpectedly, and her dreams bring her to another dimension. The dream first carries her to what seems to be the writer's depiction of the Garden of Eden, where the girl feels the presence of "Him." "Another picture replaced this one where Zosia, or her soul (she could not tell the difference), was flying

104 Vasil Bykau

around. It was a joyful and magical flight, full of sweet feelings of space and the serene happiness of freedom. "48 This happiness turns to yet another picture, where the narrator comments that something has changed inside Zosia, and though she is turned into a black bird, her wings do not save her from evil. Zosia Narejka is once again about to die in her dream, but reality shifts, and she wakes up: a group of partisans has saved her. We already know what follows, when Halubin's last shot is almost fatal, and it seems that only Providence can save her. Apparently, Providence does so: there is hope at the end of the short novel. The promise of the two dreams, when death is postponed at the last moment, later returns in the form of faith when the girl is delirious after her wound. Bykau rarely had a good word for priests of any religion in his life and work.49 Faith, however, he treated with utmost respect, and he considered religious faith to be close to humanitarian ideals. Pajsci i nie viarnucca is, however, the very first literary piece that elaborates so distinctly on the necessity of faith for people in need.

Bykau and Alexander Solzhenitsyn, 1974.

Bykau and Ales Adamovic, 1981.

In Hrodna, 1974.

Iryna Bykau typing while her husband dictates, 1979.

Bykau and Ales Adamovic with friends in the countryside, 1983. Photograph by J. Koktys.

Vasil Bykau, 1985. Photograph by A. Kaliada.

CHAPTER

FIVE

On Both Sides of the Front Lines Signs of Misfortune

How many signs of misfortune in this short novel! One by one they close the circle and haunt you, and a feeling of anxiety and danger grows. Axes are hammering near the river Germans are building the bridge, nightmares are dreamt, a crow is cawing at the farm, the dead lark comes to mind from that faraway happy spring, when for the first time after a life as farm laborers they were tilling their own land ... And it is impossible to take one's eyes off the unfortunate Janka, a living sign of terrible misfortune that took the boy and shook the whole village. The boy's death is more torturous for Sciapanida because, sinless and innocent, he was destroyed right in front of her; their own people started and strangers finished him; and together with him there came to an end an old peasant stock, as if there is no need for it in this Belarusan land. Igor' Dedkov, Vasil' Bykov

Znak Biady (Sign of misfortune,

1982)

Dedkov's commendable list of major signs and symbols of disaster in one typical family of Belarusan peasants serves as a good beginning for our discussion of Bykau's Znak Biady (Sign of misfortune).1 The novel was first published in 1982, and was immediately recognized by the readership and by literary critics as Vasil Bykau's "new word in prose." This "new word" found itself in the artistically masterful creation of a new world equally populated by novel Belarusan characters and the details of an airy Belarusan landscape. Thus Arnold McMillin wrote the following: "After a quiescent period during the miserable years at the end of the seventies and beginning of the eighties, Bykau in 1982. published one of

106 Vasil Bykau

his best works, Znak biady. In some ways this was a departure from his earlier writing in that Soviet soldiers and partisans play virtually no part in it."2 Dedkov writes as if he were continuing from McMillin's point, though his book is written before McMillin's: There are no partisans, nor what in most cases we call "a struggle," in Znak biady. A contained village life has moved from the periphery into the centre; it is now the main stage. And one more novelty: the prehistory of events has grown, unusually for Bykau; for the first time the characters' past acquires an artistic balance with their present; it is precisely the past that gives the most important additional sense, and a genetic historical depth, to all the rest. It would be untrue and oversimplified to portray the tragic events at the farmstead as current, groundless, and accidental. Bykaii preferred to search and illustrate a correlation of facts, old and new interests, motives, and acts. This was necessary, demanded by the material itself. For the first time Bykau was telling stories not about people sharing the same trench, military task, or partisan action. Kar'jer (The quarry) had not been written yet, but about those caught by the war at home, within their native walls, in their habitual peasant world and circle, where if everyone is not a blood relative, it does not matter - they are the most familiar, ours, of the same root, of one tribe. 3

Though Dedkov's description of the novel's mood is imaginative and concrete, his statement that "for the first time the characters' past acquires an artistic balance with their present" is inadequate. The past plays a decisive role in practically all of Vasil Bykau's work in the genre of the novella or the novel. In fact, his positive characters continue to evaluate the past in order to establish their present and future actions. In the writer's literary works, the past is as responsible for the formation of a character as is his or her stimulation and philosophy of life. This notion had been fully developed by 1975, in Voiicaja zhraja (The wolf pack). In Znak Biady, however, the past has essentially taken over the present and future, where the far past is the old past, while the present and even the future are either the near past or the immediate past. The plot of the novel seems uncomplicated at first glance: it is about the life and death of a couple, Piatrok and Sciapanida Bahacka, who live a harsh existence, typical of Belarusan peasants, on their humble homestead. They start as mere labourers working for old Adolf Jachimouski, who by origin belongs to the Belarusan szlachta: "He was generally not a spoiled man, taciturn and quiet, without any ill intentions. Above all Sciapanida respected him for that and she valued her job."4 Of course, the Bahackas' bread is hard to earn, but for them, a penniless young mar-

107 On Both Sides of the Front Lines

ried couple, it is not the worst way of life either. When the Soviet authorities come to expropriate the farmstead, Sciapanida and Piatrok receive a small, poor piece of Jachimouski's land. Piatrok does not want to take it in the first place, but his wife, a survivor by nature, applies for it, though reluctantly. Both Sciapanida and Piatrok feel uneasy about the procedure of expropriation. The former owner, Adolf Jachimouski, who has no other place to go, stays on the farm as a living reproof to both: One evening she could not take it anymore, and after taking care of the farm animals, announced to Piatrok that they must talk to Jachimouski, that things were not right; after all, they had been living for so long in kindness and concordance, without a quarrel, and now ... Again, it was necessary to say that it was not their fault that the authorities turned everything their way, gave them those two-tenths of an acre, but they never asked for it ... It was true, they took the land; however, if not them, it would have been given to others - there are enough poor in this world. They had to mollify Jachimouski somehow, he mustn't be angry, and about a place to live - let him stay in the house, they could manage in the boiler house until somehow they could acquire the means for their own place. As soon as they could afford it ... She would take care of the old man. Didn't he think she would return kindness? And we know that we live on his land.5

This conversation, which Sciapanida has rehearsed so painfully, takes an unexpected turn. Jachimouski states his position by saying that it was morally wrong of them to accept his land from the new authorities. He continues: "To take what does not belong to you is a sin. What belongs to others won't bring you happiness. I feel sorry for you ... — However, one can do nothing about it, - he said after a pause. - I wish you well; may Jesus and Maria help you."6 Soon after this conversation the first sign of misfortune appears: they find a dead lark in their field, foreboding a real tragedy: the suicide of old Jachimouski. The nobleman has hanged himself, and by doing so he becomes a symbol of human and national pride that Sciapanida and Piatrok, these good, hard-working people, are lacking. The "signs" of misfortune (outlined by Dedkov) are powerfully concentrated in Bykau's novel. Thus, Jachimouski symbolizes not only human and Belarusan pride and honour in Znak biady but above all represents the entire nation, robbed by the system introduced by the Bolsheviks under Lenin. After his honorable death, Jachimouski's forebodings are fulfilled: the Bahackas' young horse falls dead in a field that is too harsh to till. Piatrok continues plowing, pushing the plow himself and using a shovel when his

108 Vasil Bykau

plough fails. Piatrok sets up a cross in the hope that God can help his family, since nothing else, the elements, nature, or the authorities, are of any help. It is interesting to note, in the following excerpt from the text, that the writer names the cross not a symbol of faith but a "sign of misfortune": "The cross stood for one spring and summer on the highest point over the forest and ravine, and far from the road. Everyone who passed by on the highway saw this sign of human misfortune; however, not many knew what kind of misfortune it was. At that time one of the locals named this hill Golgotha, and after that it continued: Golgotha, or Mount Golgotha, and some even called it Piatrok's Golgotha. "7 One day a few members of the local young Communist league come and pull the cross down. Piatrok keeps silent. The youngsters also pay no attention to Sciapanida, who openly tells them that the cross, as a symbol of their protection, helped the family reap a harvest from that fruitless land, and that the boys have destroyed their symbol of hope. The next symbol of misfortune, accompanied by many other signs of hard luck, is collectivization. The people of the village paid for this tragedy during the collectivization itself, when, under the Bolsheviks, the process was completed, and later under the Germans. Piatrok does not want to join the collective farm, but his wife is active in the process of transforming their village into just such a unit. While thinking of the hatred that is forming in the village under the Germans, Piatrok's memory brings him back to the collectivization as its starting point, when hatred seemed to be the major emotion. Piatrok understands that both those who joined the collective farms willingly and those who opposed them were motivated not by their ideological beliefs but for purely personal reasons, some of which were rational and some were not: "And if Barys Bahacka voted in support for a collective farm, he did it not out of joy but to annoy Guzau: they had fallen out, and Guzau was as afraid of a collective farm as a devil is of the cross. And even his Sciapanida, though she was propagandizing for a collective farm all over the village, in reality was concerned mainly for herself, and of course for him, since by that time it was obvious that there was no way they could survive from these two-tenths of an acre, but would only ruin their health on it."8 Bykau's understanding of collectivization as a major historical disaster for the Belarusan peasantry is deliberated through the individual destinies of many Bahackas, Guzaus, and others who populate the village, which itself becomes a symbol for all the other Belarusan villages. Each of the characters becomes a symbol of the regime's wrongdoings, and, of course, Sciapanida herself fully realizes the tragic consequences of the collective farms. But outspoken as ever, she does what she can to

109 On Both Sides of the Front Lines

avoid participating in obvious cases of injustice, and often takes serious personal risks by trying to protect those who are injured by the Soviet system. It is a well-known superstition that a crow's cawing foretells or invites misfortune, and a crow becomes a symbol of misfortune in the novel. However, when a German soldier kills a crow as a joke, the dead bird signifies many things, including the death of freedom. Most likely, however, the crow foretells what happens to Piatrok, Sciapanida, and their home. The sound of axes near the river is a sign of the misfortune represented by the Germans, who are building the bridge more as a symbol of the occupiers' authority than as their connection to the villages and inhabitants of the township. The Germans occupy the Bahackas' farmstead for a short while and leave the place completely ruined: they kill the couple's cow, Babouka, which Piatrok and Sciapanida loved and cherished as their benefactress, and which is both the means and symbol of their survival. The Germans take half of the Bahackas' chickens, leaving behind only a few. In addition, the occupiers abuse the couple verbally and physically; of the entire group only an assistant cook, the young and hard-working Carl, treats the Bahackas humanely - for which he is reprimanded by the others. The worst symbol of injustice, however, does not affect the couple directly. This event is connected to Janka, a village fool, and his poor destiny. Janka is the living sign of a terrible misfortune that pierces the hearts of Piatrok and Sciapanida to the point where they both understand that their own people serving with the police are even worse enemies than the Germans, who are, after all, simply strangers. Janka's death also becomes a sign that they could be next in line. This feeling forces even Piatrok, who by nature is a personification and symbol of kindness and tolerance, to take sides and to resist the police and the Germans. His wife, whose character differs tremendously from Piatrok's, habitually goes against all odds without hesitation in the face of injustice. After Janka's terrible death, Sciapanida concentrates on an intricate question: What did she and others do in order to deserve such an unfortunate fate? "She knew her end was approaching rapidly and implacably, and she had only one question: What for? What did she do wrong, against God and conscience, why are she and other people punished so severely? "9 Though no one expects an answer to such a question, the response to this one is given directly in the following narrative, where Bykaii vividly describes the shameful dispossession of the kulaks. This action was initiated by the Bolsheviks and executed, though under duress, by local people. Sciapanida

110 Vasil Bykau

and Liavon (the honest first chairman of their collective farm) vote against the de-kulakization of their own hard-working relatives and neighbours. However, the authorities and their supporters, helped by the unresponsiveness of mediocrity and indifference that surrounds them, outvoted these two. Though Sciapanida knows that she herself is not guilty of this manslaughter, she also accepts the guilt of her community for these injustices. And this fact alone, the acceptance of collectivization, becomes a symbol of misfortune and even a severe punishment to those involved. The author's deeply philosophical account of the consequences of any action, in particular a misdeed, is inserted into the narrative in the form of a lament: "If only it was granted to a person - to cast a glance into the future, to see what is destined for him but presently remains hidden under the layers of time, all these things that will be openly revealed in the flood of coming days. Not a chance! A person cannot know anything of his own future, and it happens that one is happy with something that will turn out to be the cause of misfortune, or cries over something that later evokes a smile."10 A dialogue between Sciapanida and Karnila (a hard-working and successful peasant whom she once considered marrying) also illustrates the negative relationships in the village. Karnila is also pragmatic and very protective of his own property. He does not believe much in emotions, and prefers traditional morals to any novelty: he is against the civil marriage of his daughter. Harsh life has made him a skeptic. Thus, Karnila explains to Sciapanida his understanding of human and neighbourly relations under the Bolsheviks: "And I am telling you: there is nothing worse than neighbours. No one can harm you as much as your own neighbour. - They are the closest to you, they observe everything and are full of jealousy. In particular if they themselves are of no account. Wretched! This kind will not be as happy when he buys a horse as when his neighbour's horse is dead."11 Sciapanida, though she listens to Karnila and fully understands his sentiments, can never accept his vision simply because she has a completely different personality. This woman, whose life has been no easier than Karnila's, had preserved an inborn trust in people's goodness and a belief in justice. One of her last actions in life becomes a symbol of Sciapanida 's personal resistance to the occupiers and the Polizei in her struggle for justice. She buys a bomb from Karnila in the hope of blasting the bridge that had been so carefully constructed by the Germans. This bomb becomes her hope of avenging Janka's death, and the occupiers' and collaborators' attempt to diminish her God-given right to live in decency. The Germans and police find out that the bomb is in her possession, but it is not Karnila who has betrayed her ... Sciapanida does not allow her enemies to find

111 On Both Sides of the Front Lines

out the secret of the bomb: she sets her homestead on fire and perishes with it. With this symbolically cleansing fire she behaves like an ancient goddess, protecting her self-esteem and dignity. All of this does not mean that Sciapanida is the character to whom the novel devotes the most attention. On the contrary, every single protagonist, no matter how episodic his role in the narrative, is portrayed with a complete and wholly formed inner world, as only the genre of the novel permits. Everything is interconnected in the lives and actions of the characters of Znak biady, including their distant past, their present (near past), and of course, their future (immediate past). Even those who are of the distant past, such as Liavon, the first chairperson of the collective farm, who fell victim to the NKVD long ago, influence the novel's plot through time and space, and participate in the immediate past. And, of course, Piatrok, his wife's counterpart and opposite in many ways, plays as great a role in the action of Znak biady as Sciapanida does: Both Piatrok and Sciapanida are dear to the writer; he understands them equally well: maybe he understands Piatrok even better and more fully, and with him all the other Piatroks in the world. Or are there simply more Piatroks in the world? ... However, no matter how tolerant and careful Piatrok is, and no matter how desperately brave Sciapanida is, they will not be in opposition - a deep and beautiful harmony and unity will be discovered in their dissimilarity, when the difference in their characters cannot prevent something more important that brought them together in the first place long ago, and was sufficient to meet and deal with all the misfortunes together; and not to avoid, not to step away from each other.12

With high regard for Dedkov's emotional but true comments about Bykau's main characters in the novel, I would also like to underline Piatrok's role as a fair representative of the Belarusan peasants' national character. He is honest, hard-working, respects morals and God, and is often overcautious. Piatrok is also artistically talented: he plays the fiddle, and his musical talent is the reason that the young Sciapanida preferred him to Karnila. Among his other qualities, Piatrok is granted a deep mystical and philosophical outlook. Piatrok's thoughts and memories of the past are more emotionally concrete than his wife's. Furthermore, the narrator points out that Piatrok represents a connection well-cherished by Belarusans, the link to Dziady ("the elders"). Piatrok inspired me to use his words as an epigraph to the chapter on Vasil Bykau's novella Pastka (The mousetrap), which follows Znak biady in the fourth volume.

112 Vasil Bykau Pastka (The mousetrap, 1962) God, oh my God - thought Piatrok, looking at the twinkling turmoil of flames in the bonfire - what on earth is going on! What a misfortune is war, how badly it started, what will the future bring? Terrible times! Vasil Bykau, Sign of Misfortune

Vasil Bykau's novella with the self-explanatory title Pastka (The mousetrap) is the middle piece between the two major novels of the fourth volume. It was first written in 1962.; however, according to the bibliography of Belarusan writers,^ the novella had never been published. I telephoned Vasil Uladzimiravic on 19 June 2002, his seventy-eighth birthday; after wishing him well, I asked him about the fate of this novella. To the best of his recollection (and in my experience his memory is excellent), Bykau recalled that in the 19605 Pastka had been published only once, and only in Russian, by the journal lunost'. The work's poor publication record, of course, had nothing to do with its artistic merit. On first glance, its thematic stance should not have concerned the authorities: the plot is typical of Bykau's military short stories, novellas, and novels. The parallel between the German and Soviet secret services is outlined here as strongly as it is later in the 1965 novel Mertvym ne balic (The dead feel no pain), and this fact alone accounts for the official silence that surrounded Pastka in Belarus for a long time. The third-person narrator mainly tells the story; however, a number of dialogues and inner monologues add rich layers to the plot, composition, and characters of the novella. The time and space of the action are limited. Everything takes place within an area that should not have taken more than fifteen minutes to cross on foot: the distance between the Soviet and German trenches. The events take place within twenty-four hours, as the author mentions in a single reference, though the characters often note that time seems to be either endless or uncertain. What is more than certain in the narrative is its construction: it consists of three major Soviet attacks, two of which are unsuccessful, and the story ends on the eve of the third attack. The plot of the story is built around the main character of the novella, Lieutenant Klimcanka. Captain Arlavec, the company commander, has called Klimcanka to company headquarters together with the junior lieutenant Zubkou. Arlavec dresses down the two lieutenants harshly and obscenely for the failure of the earlier military attack. Each of the lieutenants reacts differently to Captain Arlavec's abusive language:

113 On Both Sides of the Front Lines

Zubkou falls silent, while Klimcanka talks back to his commander with anger. "He was not afraid of the captain, though he knew his stern temper, because he himself had been serving in that command since winter, and knew every single soldier as well as they knew him. But Arlavec was new, and though no one could reproach him for being a coward, on the other hand, the soldiers had started to dislike him from the very first day for his almost overwhelming ferociousness."1-* The next attack not only brings no positive results for the Soviets but also ends in Klimcanka's captivity. The lieutenant, wounded and shellshocked, becomes an easy catch for the enemy. It is his misfortune that all the official documents of his detachment, including the latest list of soldiers, are on his person. A German Gestapo officer of Russian origin, a former Muscovite, interrogates him. This individual, who bears the metaphorically significant last name Carnou (Black), offers Klimcanka a deal. He suggests that the lieutenant talk to his soldiers through a loudspeaker and convince them to surrender. Klimcanka refuses, and is severely beaten after the interrogation. He is thrown back into prison while Carnou and his team implement their plan. After all, as Carnou explains to his victim, they do not need Klimcanka's permission, or even his direct participation in this action: they have the names of his soldiers in any event. The morning after this performance takes place, Klimcanka, abused and humiliated beyond human understanding, faces an even more arduous ordeal. Carnou, who knows the Soviet political system as well as his newly adopted German system, decides to play a cruel practical joke on his former countryman. Thus he sends the lieutenant back to the Soviet trenches, where Klimcanka had begun this most unfortunate day only about twenty-four hours previously. The Gestapo officer anticipates two possibilities for the Soviet army lieutenant: either he will be shot on the spot for his "betrayal" by a Soviet political serviceman, or he will be killed during or after interrogation by the Soviet secret police. Neither of these two options is realized in the novella: Captain Arlavec, the company commander, under the pretext that in the new attack he needs every single gun, orders a political commissar, Captain Piatuchou, to back off, and sends Klimcanka back to command his old detachment. By his action, Arlavec doubtless risks his own career; he also gives Klimcanka the chance to find a decent, though temporary, way out. The humanity of this captain, who at the beginning of the narrative appears to the lieutenant to be a typically stern Soviet military commander, gives Klimcanka a priceless gift: the chance to overcome momentarily his terrible fear of the secret police. Lazar' Lazarev is the first literary critic to have noticed the similarity in themes, motifs, and interpretation in Pastka and in Mertvym nie balic

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(The dead feel no pain), acknowledging, of course, that these themes and motifs are more deeply developed in the novel.*5 This demonstrates the sympathetic ear of a democratic and conscientious professional, as Lazarev had reputably offered to many Slavic writers in need. Lazarev, of the same generation as Bykau, had often shared the writer's hopes or, as it has sometimes seemed, illusions - of democratic and economic improvements in Belarus, Russia, and other countries enslaved by the Soviet Union. Thus Lazarev, who is the first to point out the danger of Klimcanka's and Arlavec's situation in the event that they survive the last attack, also states that Pastka is finished, figuratively speaking, by what the author omits. Indeed, the novella has a "zero ending": the reader has no clue what will happen after the third attack. It is my belief, however, that these very omissions were related to the political commissars' activities during the last years of war. They are definitely no more than outlined in the novella but spelled out clearly in the novel Miortvym nie balic three years later. Miortvym nie balic (The dead feel no pain, 1965) If Miortvym nie baltf stands apart from Bykau's other writing in its dimensions and formal construction, it may be said to represent the clearest expression of many of the writer's persistent and recurring ideas, incorporating in one form or another all the major themes of his earlier work. Criticized for being too black and white in its portrayal of moral extremes (for instance, Sevruk 1966), it burns with a remorseless intensity because of the unmistakable actuality or relevance of its passionate indictment of Stalinism, relevance which, it has been suggested, "lies behind both the work's achievements and its faults" (Buran 1976, 78). Arnold McMillin, Belarusian Literature

The novel Miortvym nie balic (The dead feel no pain), which concludes the fourth volume, raises many of Bykau's "burning" questions. The predominant issue in the novel, which is also its main theme, is the establishment of fear created by the Soviet system and its application to individuals during the war. The extent of the activities of the Soviet military institution of the secret police is hard to measure even today, when the KGB archives are open.16 Because of its emphasis on this theme, the novel suffered greatly at the hands of Soviet criticism.J7 In McMillin's words:

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It was ironic that the Communist commentators who set out to attack Bykau's longest work to date, Miortvym nie balic, should have used the accusation of self-repetition as one of their weapons, since this important novel (which, like its Russian translation, remained unreprinted until 1989 after its original journal publication in 1965) departs ambitiously from the narrow physical confines of most of Bykau's writings up to then by showing a rather broad panorama of military action, and by raising to a new and very specific level the links between past and present through interlocking chapters depicting wartime (1944) and Belarusian life two decades later.18

As McMillin points out, a swarm of criticism surrounded this novel from the start; today, almost forty years after its publication, Miortvym nie balic continues to raise questions from both sides: "black" and "white." I find that in terms of this novel, Lazar' Lazarev's monograph Vasil' Bykov has the most comprehensive analyses of the contemporary criticism. The most positive side of his critique is that Lazarev, who seems to admire the novel, is able to look at some of the weaknesses of the existing criticism with a scholarly eye. Thus, he cites the generally positive, though at the same time extremely critical opinion of A. Bocharov, showing the latter's dissatisfaction with the portrayal of one of the major characters, the captain of secret police, Sachno: "Unfortunately, writes A. Bocharov, the sharpness of the author's polemic against Sachno is sometimes replaced by the quantity of the polemics; the character of this anti-hero grows immeasurably in the scale of the novel, steering the character to a bad fate. The writer here loses his artistic mastery in the portrayal of his protagonist. Sachno is no longer a living person in the novel: he becomes a target, at which the author's indignation continually directs new and fresh blows."1? Lazarev's own position on Sachno is more sober: "While speaking about the drawbacks of this protagonist, one should remember that the phenomenon that this character represents is real and serious."20 The critic also puts forward Bykau's own attitude to the novel: he says that the writer considers it to be his most personal and autobiographical work. Apt as this statement is, and keeping in mind that Lazarev, like most of his generation, shared Bykau's pain, fear, and indignation towards the Soviet secret service, I would question the idea that this novel is Bykau's most autobiographical. Many years ago I asked Vasil Bykau why he has never written a full autobiography, and he immediately replied that his biography is in his books.211 would agree that for most of his literary career (with the partial exception of his latest parables), Bykaii has written one and the same book, with himself as the main protagonist. And because he knows him-

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self better than anyone, there is undoubtedly a good deal of his own character, and recognizable events from his own life in the makeup of each of his protagonists. However, as critics we are trained to take every statement a writer makes with a grain of salt. Simply guessing which character is most likely to represent Vasil Bykau in his literary works would be a complete fiasco, even on the basis of the writer's hints. What might be an indication of this? Two names, Vasil and Uladzimir (Valodzia, Valodzka), in different combinations of first name, patronymic (Uladzimir is the writer's father name), and family name, are used the most in his literary works. In this respect, who is more Vasil, Hlecyk (Vasil) from "Zurauliny kryk," or Vasilievic (Lionia) from Miortvym nie balic? My personal belief is that both are equally "Vasils," but from different periods: Vasil Hlecyk represents Bykau at the beginning of the war, while Lionia Vasilievic stands in for Bykau at the war's end. The plot of the novel is complicated, structured, unusually for Belarusan and Slavic literature, in the form of "a novel within a novel."22 The narrative of the "first" novel starts when the reader finds its main character, the junior lieutenant Vasilievic, twenty-one years after the war, at the celebration of Victory Day in Miensk.23 Vasilievic is a war invalid and wears an artificial leg. His prosthetic appliance is not of the best quality, and embarrasses its owner with its squeaky sounds. The "second" novel starts in the third chapter, with the beginning of the military events of Miortvym nie balic; three chapters later, the reader is returned from the "past" into the "present." On several further occasions, the time and the events change at the author's will. Vasilievic narrates both parts in the first person. In the words of Lazarev: "Indeed, Bykau has no other work where the distance between the author and the narrator-character is so narrow, sometimes approaching zero; perhaps even the last name Vasilievic - was prompted to the author by his own name, Vasil. It seems that the author, enveloped by the passionate aspiration to tell all, sometimes sets his character aside without noticing it. This results in a quicktempered intonation that often clearly colours the narration, as well as the appearance of obstacles to the self-realization and activity of the characters. "24 I tend to agree that Vasilievic as a character is often presented in the Aristotelian tradition of a positive hero. This type traditionally wears only bright and light colours, and lacks some of the sophistication of a "modern" character. In this sense, if Vasil Bykau is the prototype, his lieutenant is a mere shadow of the original. The only explanation for such a flaw would be the time of the novel's composition: Bykaii was still acquiring his mastery of the genre at the time. However, to consider either Vasilievic, or his foe and foil Sachno, to be mere sketches diminishes these protagonists, their creator, and the times. Both char-

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acters are powerful, influential, and alive, forty years after they first saw the light of day in Bykau's novel. Vasilievic, who has a history with Sachno, thinks that he has recognized his old opponent on Victory Day, in the Miensk hotel where both individuals are trying to get a room. A swarm of memories overwhelms him and he almost loses his breath. The reader is carried back to wartime, to 1944, when the Soviets and the allies are closer to victory than ever. The war machine has turned around, and the Germans' defeat has become inevitable, but the battles are no less fearsome than in 1941. The military theatre, however, without changing the rules, has changed the position of the performers. Now it is the German armies who are trying to battle their way through the many encirclements in which they find themselves. In the military part of the novel, Vasilievic, wounded in one of these actions, finds himself with a group of comrades in rapidly changing circumstances: one moment he is escorting a group of captives to the headquarters of his company, the next he is involved in another attack; he is again wounded, this time in the foot. Sachno guards the group of wounded soldiers. He appears whenever the situation has temporarily stabilized, and prefers to act as a political commissar to the wounded rather than taking part in military actions, which he avoids to the best of his ability. Sachno, a captain, uses his rank and his authority like a secret policeman, maliciously and brutally. During one of the temporary ceasefires, when the wounded are gathered in one room and tended by a nurse, Kacia, Lionia Vasilievic rejoices to see his best friend, Jury Stralkou, with whom he had studied at military school. Later on the two end up in the same company. The proximity of autobiography and reality in Miortvym nie balic is confirmed in my interview with the writer in February 2002..^ Indeed, while comparing that episode from Bykau's life with the following description in the novel, one is amazed not only by the similarity of the two but also by the strength of Vasil Bykau's emotional memory: "We had a very difficult life over there - we were just newly enlisted, almost children who were in school just yesterday, and cruel military fate took us from our school books and threw us into the indifferent brutality of a military school, with its accelerated program, sleepless duties, and the weariness of endless defence activities. We always dreamed of sleep, food, and rest."2-6 Vasilievic's joy at seeing Stralkou turns into undying pain when Stralkou, heavily wounded in a German surprise attack and now immobile, commits suicide in order to unburden Vasilievic and his team. Twenty-one years later, Vasilievic remembers: "Oh, Jurka, Jurka! You are my most painful anguish in life. You are my never-healing

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wound. Others have mended long ago, but not you, bleeding and aching, maybe because you are the wound of my heart. "z? This misfortune happens right on the eve of Vasilievic's and Sachno's captivity. Vasilievic, badly wounded once again, cannot believe Sachno's sudden transformation from a stern and cruel commander into a submissive and obliging captive. Vasilievic does not know what happens to Sachno after their captivity: he himself is shot but survives yet again, though his leg is amputated. However, when he describes Sachno to Harbaciuk (whom he at first mistakenly takes for Sachno in the peacetime chapters of the novel), his view of his foe is rather complex but still objective: - You know, I took you for another - I admit honestly. - I mistook you for a bastard. From the time of the war. - Harbaciuk smiles with understanding. - Maybe some kind of a traitor? - No, he didn't look like a traitor. - A coward? - Not a coward either. When need be he was even brave. And he wouldn't let others show cowardice. - Was he strict? - Strict is the wrong word. I would rather say cruel. - Harbaciuk turns back to the table. - Well, cruelty in war is not a sin.2-8

The apprehension that Harbaciuk had earlier evoked in Vasilievic now visits the latter, and after this dialogue, Harbaciuk takes the place of Sachno in the peacetime chapters. Very soon Harbaciuk also reveals his position during the war: apparently he was the head of a military tribunal, and people like Sachno were mere suppliers for that monstrous military machine. Harbaciuk, who is nostalgic for his hideous powers during the war, shares with Vasilievic some of his former "deeds," which brings the two to a passionate argument and result in Vasilievic's minor heart problem. These two protagonists, Sachno and Harbaciuk, construct a balance in the plot of the "two" novels that together read as one and acquires an epic quality. The sheer number of characters and events, as well as questions, either answered or raised only rhetorically, allow us to call the novel an epic. Many of these characters, seen through Vasilievic's eyes though confined to single episodes - have full-fledged biographies. In some cases, like Kacia the nurse, Jurka Stralkou, and Lionia Vasilievic himself, their love stories are told in detail. Vasilievic shares most of the military episodes portrayed in the novel with Kacia, a strong-willed military nurse. She continually performs

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heroic acts modestly, competently, and most importantly, humanely. She is not submissive, and refuses to carry out orders that she considers senseless. Kacia often shows courage at times when even experienced men are taken aback. The reader learns that she has served from the beginning of the war, enlisting as early as 1941. She loses her life, as Stralkou does, because of Sachno. In her case, Sachno, who has been warned about a minefield, forces them nonetheless to pass through it; in Stralkou's case, Sachno personally encourages him to commit suicide after he has sent Lionia away. Sachno cynically comments on Kacia's love story after taking her identification papers from her dead body: apparently, there had been a scandal in their regiment when Kacia had an affair with the married Maskaliou, commander of the company. An order came down from division headquarters publicly denouncing Kacia's affair. The lieutenant, however, who has developed an unconditional respect for Kacia, passionately reacts to Sachno's gossip: "I can hardly control myself. I am sure he will drive me crazy. I cannot look at him ... it is unbelievable how different we are! We are both officers of the same army. We are citizens of the same country. The Devil alone knows why it is so. Why is contact with this lackey-like German easier for me than being with him?"2? There is not a single accidental line in Bykau's novel: everything is interconnected. The "lackey-like German," Engel, accompanies the lieutenant on his traumatic military journey even longer than Kacia and Stralkou do. We first meet him when Vasilievic is on his way to the medical centre at the rear, and is assigned to escort a couple of captives to headquarters. Engel, a middle-aged schoolteacher who is tired of fighting, seems to welcome his captivity; his comrade-in-arms, a Nazi activist, is killed during an exchange of fire with German tanks that suddenly ambush the group. Sasok, Sachno's helper, like his commander, leaves the group at the first sign of danger. Engel turns out to be very helpful and tries to please everyone around him: Kacia, Sachno, Vasilievic, and the other wounded. As soon as the situation turns around, however, and he is recaptured together with Vasilievic and Sachno, Engel reluctantly follows the orders of his superiors: he shoots the lieutenant. This last shot is nearly fatal, and leaves Vasilievic with a weak heart for life. There are other love stories in the canvas of the novel besides Kacia's. Lionia Vasilievic meets his first love during the war, well before the main events unfold, and loses her on the eve of those events. She was also a nurse, like Kacia, but although there is little age difference between the two, in terms of life experience, Vasilievic's girlfriend could easily be Kacia's daughter. He was trying to take care of this innocent and helpless girl, and was about to declare his love to her, when she was shot.

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Vasilievic is so protective of the memory of his love that, admitting to himself that he has never again loved so strongly since this loss, he never gives her name. Stralkou's love has a name, and apparently a longer history than Vasilievic's. Lida was Stralkou's sweetheart from before the war. An accidental glimpse of a woman at the railway station somehow causes Vasilievic to flash back to his memories of Stralkou's love: "I remember how impatiently he would grab her letters, coloured with pencils of different shades, from the man on duty back in the military school. There was so much tenderness and loyalty in them! It was a dazzling and brief love, which I was envious of and about which I used to dream in my youth. Where is she now, his Lidka?"3° The woman at the railway station, apparently lonely, unhappy, and poor, somehow evokes memories of Lida; Vasilievic imagines that the real Lida would look like her. This understanding, as well as the immeasurable pain inflicted by such a vision, prevents him from making any contact with Lida after the war. Vasilievic accepts the war's casualties as his own fault and guilt, and he is thus unable to bring to all those who were touched by the war what he himself does not have: peace of mind. Vasilievic's negative memories of Sachno are strengthened by the fact that although individual persons rarely supported his rival, Sachno was the one who had the most important ally on his side: the power of the state. Sachno and his kind lost some of this support with the death of their leader, Josef Stalin. Sachno's personification during peacetime, Harbaciuk, who, like others among the state's cruel operatives, enjoys all the privileges of the state for his service, laments his lost role of henchman. Harbaciuk, however, meets open resistance from the group of youngsters. They dislike Harbaciuk at first glance when he tries to get himself a room in the hotel with no regard for those who have been waiting patiently for their turn. They take up Vasilievic's fight, and disgrace Harbaciuk as best they can, thanks to their youth, their health, their arrogance, their understanding of the times, and their craving for justice. Vasilievic, who this time does not miss his chance to answer Harbaciuk's hateful philosophy with a blow of his fist, imagines that he is directing his delayed strike at Sachno: "My fists suddenly became heavy. My eyes are foggy once again, and there is no more Harbaciuk in this fog, but only Sachno."31 Though this happens in the presence of a militia captain at the office of the district militia, and the authorities "properly" note the "occurrence," Vasilievic feels neither fulfilled nor repentant. He still thinks of his foes as being the same personality. In his mind, if Sachno has survived the war, he most probably remains the

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same character as he was during the war: "I know that meeting him would bring me no joy. He is one of Harbaciuk's kind, and twenty years is a very short time for them to change. "32 In short, this meeting with Sachno's type, though he is differently named, brings nothing but pain to Vasilievic. It seems that what primarily connects Vasil Bykau and his subject Vasilievic is this almost unbearable personal, individual, and collective pain, which continues to flow in their veins decades after the end of the war. In fact, the whole novel can be considered an encyclopedia of pain, individual and civil, under the editorship of Bykau. Lazarev, Dedkov, Shagalov, and many other critics name Bykau as Tolstoy's disciple in terms of his attraction to the pain of the wounded in war. Bykau, like Tolstoy before him, shows the physical sufferings of the wounded as proof that war is humanity's greatest misfortune. In Miortvym nie balic, Bykau masterfully delineates the Soviet negligence and disrespect to their own wounded. He shows the reader how the wounded are envious of the dead, just as Lionia Vasilievic, unable to bear his pain, is jealous of his dead friend Jury Stralkou. The supposition that Miortvym nie balic is the encyclopedia of Bykau's pain can be confirmed in the novel: Windows of bookshops are especially interesting at night. As well stocked as military companies before the war, they evoke total trust and sincerity, agreement and peace. In the past I used to love to observe them, particularly at night. At nighttime they look much different than during the day. Books at night are like wise people in life. Each in itself. They look at me with the quiet, deep thoughtfulness of wise men from all four window walls of the shop. Each is a concentration of intellect, emotions, witnesses of an era and experience. And not a single one has what makes me ache. They are all deaf to my pain, because each is overwhelmed with its own. They only inform us of what no longer pains us, of what has passed into mankind's emotional memory. Yet maybe in that they are giving us a hopeful lesson. Through the depth of ages, the heads of generations, their human sense builds its bridges into the future. They each tell about their own experience and warn us of many mistakes in the eternal struggle with evil.33

This excerpt is nothing less than a deeply emotional confession of Vasil Bykau's most intimate understanding of the writer's role in society. In my view, this particular excerpt confirms as well that the author and his novel clearly exemplify what Boris Pasternak aspired to and achieved in Doctor Zhivago: "a piece of flaming conscience."34

CHAPTER SIX

Scars of War Being Hunted Down

The next major work, Kar'jer, first published in 1986, also links two historical periods, namely the war and the present day. In this respect it is closest to Sotnikau and Abelisk, with emphasis on the role of memory in avoiding not only distortion but also stereotyping. Arnold McMillin, Belarusian Literature

Kar'jer (The quarry, 1986)

The fifth volume of the six collected works opens with Vasil Bykati's novel Kar'jer (The quarry).1 This novel, one of the Belarusan writer's longest, continues his lifetime literary investigation of moral choice. Kar'jer is also rare among Bykaii's works: it seldom provokes any dispute about its genre. The novel's length and rich cast of characters are proof against any arguments.2 Critics acknowledge the novel as one of Bykaii's major works as well as his most multifaceted in terms of structure, plot, poetic devices, and constellation of characters. The sophistication and complexity of the novel begins with the title. Quarry can mean "an animal that is being hunted down, especially with dogs or hawks; prey; anything being hunted or pursued. "3 The most common understanding of kar'jer (quarry), however, is "a place where building stone, marble, or slate is excavated, as by cutting or blasting. "4 Both meanings are pertinent to the title of the novel (though in relation to the second sense we should replace marble and stone with typical Belarusan soil, a mixture of sand and clay). The meaning of being hunted seems apt as well, because the quarry is a fateful crossroads for many of Bykau's protagonists. It is also the place where his main character, Ahiejeu, was once hunted down. The Germans shot him there in 1941,

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but miraculously, he survived. Since that incident, Ahiejeu has been haunted by memories of those days and is trying to find answers to his quest in the quarry that is at the heart of the novel's plot. The quarry as a manufactured source of a building material may also be taken metaphorically: the quarry, present on almost every page of the novel, can be treated as a character itself. The two different levels in the quarry also play a role in the plot, for its deep bottom signifies many things. Some of them, like the fall of human beings, both spiritual and physical, are elaborated in great detail, as when all the people from the party to which Ahiejeu belonged during the war fall into the bottom of the quarry. Others, like references to the biblical fallen angels, and the moral fall of the Belarusan police and German occupiers, remain just a suggestion. Ahiejeu's fall, however, is described in detail and reminds the reader more of downward flight than of the stonelike fall of the others. In any event, the actual meaning of the title, which could evoke the reader's expectation of a typical novel of industrial productivity, belies that first impression. Indeed, this polysemous title reflects on all the characters of the complex work, which is simultaneously psychological, philosophical, social (patriotically oriented), religious, and above all, existential. This last is included because of the major existential themes Bykau employs in the novel: moral choice, rich imagination and strong emotional memories, and the genre of parable, to name only a few. Kar'jer, one of the most objective literary works ever written by the mature writer, initiates a new direction in Bykau's work: his major protagonists now have private lives separate from their author. Indeed, all the major protagonists in this example of Bykau's use of the "book within a book" live full and independent lives. There are no indications, except very general ones (such as the fact of participation in World War Two), of Bykau's own personal fate. The book within a book also brings together two historical and social periods, the third month of the Second Great Patriotic War (August 1941) and the same month over forty years later. Such a device is not a novelty for Bykau. As noted earlier, Bykaii had fully developed the same double time dimension in the novel Miortvym ne balic (The dead feel no pain), and returns to this device in a number of his other major novels that followed Kar'jer. The main character in such works usually plays the role of the agent moving between the times and places of action. The quarry in the novel takes the role of a permanent agent. By this distinction, I mean that a moving agent presupposes some kind of end in the future, while a permanent agent symbolizes eternity. In Kar'jer, however, Bykau trades the positions of the two agents: while Ahiejeu continues

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with his mortal existence, the quarry ceases to be; it is covered over in order to build a chicken farm on the land. While Vasil Bykau personally always preferred the idea of physical death to that of captivity, his characters do not have much choice. Even in times of peace or armistice, they are drawn apart by irreconcilable differences of various natures: societal, political, or simply the realities of everyday existence. As if out of pity for their doomed destinies, the reader feels that not only the narrator but also the author himself expresses indignation at the mistreatment of former captives. Indeed, the third-person narration of this novel is often full of compassion towards such characters, and the reader feels the author's presence in such episodes of the novel. In peacetime these former prisoners of war, such as Siamion, an invalid of World War Two, are often captives of alcohol. Though Siamion is part of the peacetime narrative, his presence in the novel is an insignia of war: he lost one hand in the conflict, and twenty years later he still wears an outfit reminiscent of a military uniform. Most significantly, Siamion talks incessantly about his military experiences. Siamion's war experience is also gained in two concentration camps: first, after regular service in the Red Army, he was a captive of the Germans, from whom he escaped. Later on, when he joined the police (in order to get weapons, because the partisans would not accept newcomers without guns), he served in a partisan detachment and then jumped at the first chance to rejoin the regular army. As soon as Siamion came home after the war, however, despite being an invalid, he was sent to a Soviet concentration camp. His "crimes" were obvious: for one thing, he had once been a member of the police, but far more serious was his time spent as a German prisoner of war. Ahiejeu is full of empathy and compassion towards Siamion. In fact, the loner Ahiejeu prefers Siamion's company to the company of his own only son, an individual of a different generation and, to add to his father's dissatisfaction, a typical, pragmatic bureaucrat. Siamion's character is familiar to anyone in Belarus, or for that matter, in any geographical area of the Soviet post-war empire. People often meet men like Siamion on public transport, in a queue, or at work (it was common for these invalids to find work as night watchmen). One would also often smell their "night before" and their body odour, because as a rule they take poor care of themselves, for obvious but unfortunate reasons. These men are always eager to share their life stories with a sympathetic listener, and if willing, the listener is rewarded with the most fascinating and exciting adventures, the core of which would be sincere and true, no matter how unbelievable they might seem to be. Ahiejeu

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feels this familiarity in the company of Siamion, who has been at various times a brilliant intelligence officer, a prisoner of war, a partisan, and a criminal (at least from the Soviet point of view), and who is presently a modest worker at a place created for invalids like himself. Despite his wounds and weakness for alcohol, Siamion never complains about the state of his health, considering his own fate a lucky one: after all, he survived. His death, which occurs near the end of the narrative, is unexpected for Ahiejeu, who sincerely mourns and misses Siamion. So does the reader; or at least, so does this reader, who became used to people like Siamion - though, belonging to the generation that is almost no more, they have become a rarity in the Belarusan landscape. As the only regular gathering place for the many voices of characters from different times and generations, the quarry is always the focal point of the narrative. These voices and characters revolve around Ahiejeu, who at the beginning of the narrative is a semi-retired academic. His occupation at the novel's opening is rather surrealistic: for the entire summer, he has been digging in the quarry. Apparently, there is a reason why he is doing this job, so unusual for an academic of his age: he is looking for any sign of Maryja, his young lover, who, forty years previously, in the summer of 1941, happened to come to the same township in Belarus as Ahiejeu. Maryja came for a summer visit, hardly expecting to get stuck there while Ahiejeu, a wounded officer in the Red Army, became one of the many encircled military servicemen. This phenomenon of the first days of the war was so common that a noun to define these victims of circumstance exists in both the Belarusan and Russian languages: akruzency in Belarusan, okruzhentsy in Russian. These "servicemen in surrender" traditionally evoked mixed feelings and were treated differently by the population, the Germans, the police, and Soviet officials. The population in general, in particular at the beginning of the war, was very sympathetic towards the Red Army fighters and would often feed and provide shelter for soldiers when they found themselves encircled at the rear of the army. Such a scenario was more likely to happen if the locals were not yet involved in any form of collaboration with the occupiers. Obviously, having their own husbands, fathers, daughters, and sons in the Red Army enhanced the people's sympathies, before the terror of the occupation started. During the war, the later a Soviet soldier found himself in such a semi-captive situation, the less safe his personal situation would become, because he would find himself in the centre of a closed square. The four walls of this square were the occupiers, the police, the partisans, and the local population. The occupiers were quick to introduce a new and well-organized order based on

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extremely strict regulations. Fear became the main lever and driving force of the new regime. A local police force was introduced, subordinate to the German ss, which instilled fear in a population that was also fearful of the partisans. The local police needed to recruit healthy and capable men of military age, and were on constant lookout for people like Ahiejeu. So too were the partisans. Both police and partisans, however, were united in their strong suspicion, not only of any newcomer but of their local recruits as well. Commonly, the new authorities and the partisans claimed to be protecting the interests of the population; in reality they were often self-serving, and both lived off the locals. Ahiejeu, a senior lieutenant and professional soldier, is separated from his detachment by a twist of military fate. He is wounded during an attempt to find his way back to the regular army. From his entire group of soldiers (fifty-seven at the beginning of the campaign), only Ahiejeu and the junior lieutenant Malakovic (also lightly wounded), carry on after the last action. The badly wounded senior lieutenant has survived only because of Malakovic, who happens to come from a nearby township. At first Ahiejeu thinks this lad is a simple peasant, but Malakovic proves to be a good comrade: he helps Ahiejeu in their flight from the Germans and finds him temporary shelter with a local woman. His host's name is Baranouskaja, and she turns out to be a much better educated and more cultured person than her guest. Baranouskaja has lived in the township since before the revolution, when she was a teacher and the wife of a priest. This generous woman, who has had an exceptionally difficult life, helps Ahiejeu, a typical young Soviet simpleton, glimpse the rich history of his land before the Bolsheviks. She also supplies him with books and journals published before 1917. Baranouskaja tells him the story of her life, and through the prism of her faith, moral stance, and personal integrity, she demonstrates to the young officer a rich spectrum of values, of which he had only a vague understanding before meeting this remarkable person. One of the questions examined in the novel, a major motif in Kar'jer, is rather unusual for Belarusan literature at the time: the fate of religion under the totalitarian regimes of Stalin and Hitler. The personal life of Baranouskaja is both the backdrop and, more significantly, the principal catalyst of many of the novel's events. Baranouskaja was born into a well-to-do family and grew up with a mother who idolized the simple folk and encouraged her only daughter to become a teacher. Varvara Baranouskaja, as a young and idealistic woman, was a typical representative of the pre-revolutionary intelligentsia. Her lower-class husband was educated in a religious seminary

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and became a priest just before World War One. According to Varvara, Father Kiryl, who raised his social status from peasantry to priesthood, would never deny belonging to his kin, and was genially interested in and helpful to them. In fact, he was as eager to promote education among the peasants as his wife was. Varvara Baranouskaja remembers: "They say in our days that religion is the 'opium of the people,' but back then people did not think this way; in fact, the majority of them felt rather differently: they believed that faith uplifts a person and brings truth and light to their lives."5 Baranouskaja reveals to her unexpected tenant her change of heart about religion (she too was a nihilist and an atheist in her early years). Thanks to her husband, she learned that kindness is more important than education or anything else in the world. An ardent adherent of education at the beginning of her life, at the end she measures all the values of existence only in terms of human kindness. In her current belief, faith (which she associates with kindness) remains the only hope for humanitiy's spiritual survival. Hearing about the hardships of Baranouskaja's family after the revolution, about the everyday abuses that they had to endure under the Stalinists' anti-religious regime, and of all the cruel mistreatments they consequently were subjected to, Ahiejeu starts to feel an overwhelming compassion towards this woman. During this time he also begins to question Lenin's and Stalin's negative attitude to religion, an attitude that still prevailed near the end of the twentieth century in Belarus. As Arnold McMillin notices in his chapter on Bykau, Baranouskaja's conversations with her guest throw a great deal of light on the limited and one-sided version of culture and education that people received under the Soviets. Thus, Ahiejeu sounds rather helpless in their discussion of the subject: - Tell me [asks Ahiejeu], do you believe in God, really? - And what else would I believe in? - And do you pray and - well, observe those rituals of yours? - Rituals are not important. To believe in God does not at all mean faithfully praying or observing rituals. It means, rather, having God in your soul. And behaving accordingly. According to conscience, that is according to God. She fell silent and he reflected that he didn't after all seem to know too much about the subject he had started the conversation on. In fact, what did he know about religion? Just that it was the opium of the people ... - Have you read the Holy Gospels? asked Baranouskaja, fixing him with an attentive gaze from the depths of her darkened eye-sockets. - No, I haven't read them. Because ... Because ... - I understand. But have you, for example, even read Dostoevsky?

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- Dostoevsky? I've heard of him. But we didn't do him in school. - Of course you didn't do him. But he is, after all, a great Russian writer. On the same level as Tolstoy. - Well, I know about Tolstoy, that Tolstoy made many mistakes, said he, glad that here was a subject he knew at least something about. - Non-resistance to evil, for example.6

I should add to McMillin's comment that Baranouskaja's character plays the role of a catalyst at many levels in the novel: besides religion and education, she discusses hate and intolerance, and puts human kindness above all possible values. This quality makes Baranouskaja the only wholesome female character in the novel. As a consequence, she is also the most sincere and true spirit in Kar'jer, and seems to have the flesh and bones of an actual breathing being. Even the rather well-developed character of sweet, loyal Maryja, for example, pales in comparison to Varvara Baranouskaja: Maryja looks for most of the narrative like a typical classic sweetheart, one who might exist in almost any novel. In addition to the many attractive qualities of Varvara Baranouskaja, she is also shown as a self-sufficient and self-reliant person. The author also gives her the power to be the centre of all the positive forces in the novel. Thus, she in turn helps Volkau, the District Party Committee secretary, and Ahiejeu. Maryja, Ahiejeu's first love and the object of his quest, also turns to her for help. As the core figure of positive and constructive values in the novel, Varvara Baranouskaja is given very strong antagonists throughout her long life. As a young democrat, she opposes the dehumanizing powers of the tsar's government. The Bolsheviks, however, represent much more evil to her personally than the tsar's government ever did. Despite this, and because Baranouskaja is first of all a patriot, she takes the Bolsheviks' side during the war and helps the partisans. Baranouskaja is actually the only protagonist in the novel who is represented by more modes of narrative than Ahiejeu, the main character. She is described in the third-person narration as well as in the voices of the novel's many other characters who speak on her behalf. The main voice, however, her own, is heard in the form of a confession the night after the German ss forces and local police massacre the local Jewish population. Once again, this character seems to be the closest to the author, and acts as his mouthpiece. After all, the writer himself grew up in a place where for centuries Jews had lived side by side with Belarusans. Varvara (who was his mother's age at the time of the events) sounds like his own mother when lamenting the event:

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- Oh, what are they doing with the people! They gathered them all together. All of them, all of them ... They did not leave behind a single soul; they took all of their possessions ... They made me collect their grain too. Anything that was left, was grabbed. - And where did they drive them to? asked Ahiejeii. - Who knows? People say, to the railway station. They would send them somewhere. Others say: they will shoot them in the Garelyi [Burned] marshes. - And what, no one was trying to run away? - How could you do so? They put guards with guns everywhere, on the streets and behind them.7

Baranoiiskaja, who could have been indifferent to the Jews, people of a different faith, is full of compassion. She also feels much closer to the Bolshevik Volkau than to the chief of police, Drazdzienka. Volkaii, according to the morals of the previous regime, is her class enemy, but turns out to be a kind and understanding person. His views of the events are in tune with those of the priest's widow. His answers to Ahiejeu's questions are brief, painful, and truthful: - What, would they be destroyed? - It looks like they would be... - How appalling! - "Appalling" is not strong enough. It is a crime! One half of the township is as if dead. And they were living here for hundreds of years. Here at the local cemetery you will find many of their generations. - And nothing could be done? - What could be done? We were not ready. After all, we don't have enough strength yet. The struggle just has started.8

Volkau is a typical figure of the Soviet or any totalitarian regime: a "good" leader who appears only briefly and seems to be friendly to Baranouskaya and her tenant. Drazdzienka, the chief of police, on the other hand, is shown as a villain and executioner of the Jews. However, as the representative of a new order, at first he too tends to be very sympathetic toward the local priest's widow, who was oppressed by the previous regime. Drazdzienka is depicted as an opportunist and traitor, who serves his new bosses not out of ideological convictions but primarily to save his own skin. He works for them with the same slavishness as he used to serve the Soviets. Drazdzienka changes bosses because he is convinced of Germany's strength and its inevitable victory.

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Among other questions raised in Kar'jer, McMillin notes the collaboration with the occupiers. He also elucidates the fact that Bykau shows a wider picture of Soviet everyday life during different historic periods: the pre-revolutionary era, the period after 1917, pre-collectivization, and so on. Thus, McMillin's critique asserts that collaboration apparently became a widespread phenomenon during World War Two. To the following valid interpretation, I would add only a notion that is always pondered in Vasil Bykau's works, sometimes subtly, and sometimes directly: collaboration during the war was a direct outcome of collectivization: Kar'jer also contains fuller discussion than in Bykau's earlier books of everyday Soviet problems and their causes, such as, for instance, the chronic petrol shortage, but more relevant to his contribution to war literature are some very pertinent reflections on the differences between World War I and World War II, particularly in relation to the degree of respect for human life: in World War II "there was no denying it, human life had gone down in value, and would probably go down even further" (Bykau, 1986, 5,11). Perhaps related to this in its causes is the phenomenon of collaboration with the enemy which - or so it seemed to the reflective Ahiejeii - had not existed in the earlier conflict.9

The strongest counter to Baranouskaja's values is not Drazdzienka, the crude and loud-mouthed former Soviet army officer, but Kavieska, the Belarusan nationalist, who emigrated after the Revolution and came with the Germans to Belarus. This character personifies all the dark sides of human nature: he is callous, canny, shrewd, and, for the most part, painted in such dark colours that even Kavieska's obvious love for Belarus and his high intellectual capacities do not evoke any sympathies. Thus, here is a conversation between the two antagonists, Kavieska and Ahiejeu, about what has happened to the Belarusan Jews (it seems that the author uses this occurrence as a litmus test to check the humanity of his protagonists). During the course of the conversation, they represent the eternal disparity between a nationalist and a patriot. This novel, like many before and after it, once again propagates Bykau's well-known idea that a patriot lovingly appreciates everything national, while a nationalist loathes everything strange and diverse: - And what, you think that Jews are not human? - An inadequate race - Kavieska stressed his answer. - Maybe this is not a correctly Christian approach, however ... Just think:

131 Scars of War they are strangers to us. They stained our history. Over the centuries they weakened the Belarusan spirit. Let's not feel sorry for them. - But if we are not compassionate, then no one will be kind to us either.10 Maryja, a young Belarusan ethnomusicologist, trained by her father who was of the same outlook, represents a younger generation of patriots. Her memories of one of her father's expeditions, when he took her along after she completed grade six, are full of romantic enthusiasm for Belarusan folklore and village life: - And how did you live there, on the expedition? - Oh, that was heaven! Somewhere in a little forest village, we would rent a room from some Auntie Lusa or Auntie Albina, and she would have a cow with a calf, a horse, a dog, a sheep with eight lambs or so, little piglets, little chicks. It was terribly interesting! I would often become friends with the local kids, and we would go together pasturing horses for the night. We would go swimming in the river, catching crawfish, and fishing, of course. And how many flowers there are in the fields and meadows. And forests! Oh, those forests with countless multitudes of berries and mushrooms. Even today I cannot remember it without getting excited. Even when I came here to visit my cousin, I came mainly to pick berries ... This is my favorite pastime ... And because of that I am here.11 As often happens to Bykau's protagonists (and in tune with the literary practices of the existentialists), Maryja becomes a captive of circumstances. In her ethical outlook she is certainly much closer to Varvara Baranouskaja than to any other protagonist in the novel. In fact, she plays the role of Varvara's spiritual granddaughter. There is no doubt that if Maryja had survived, she would have continued to develop Varvara's strong democratic, patriotic, and maybe even religious beliefs. These are her words about Belarusan identity and the Belarusan language, which the author echoes so often in his artistic and public aesthetics: - And what? Is Belarusan any worse? It's a Slavic language by as much right as Russian and Ukrainian - it is neither any better nor any worse - it is their equal. - Good for you, said Ahiejeu. But I'm a villager. I had to go through hell in the army. I had to get rid of my native tongue and to learn Russian. And even then they teased me ... - Well, maybe in the army one has to have Russian as a common language, I don't know about that ... But why should I be ashamed in Miensk, in my own republic? Anyway, they don't understand that notion in cities, but you were fully

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free to use it in the country. I loved the way the women sang. In the evenings, when they were coming back after a day of field work, the sound was everywhere, you would hear it everywhere, behind the hill and from the forest, and the songs were so long-lasting and sweet, so beautiful, and they sang so harmoniously.12-

This girl signifies the virtuous womanhood and feminine beauty of the Belarusan motherland. The riddle of Maryja's fate is not revealed to either Ahiejeu or the reader. We know that she is pregnant and that the last time she is seen is in captivity. Maryja was not, however, shot with the rest of the group. Thus Ahiejeu's search for her in the quarry - he digs up the entire bottom of the quarry (with the exception of one little corner) - carries more metaphysical than real meaning. Two dreams of his, which follow one after the other, are clearly of supernatural character, and both confirm that Bykau and his characters are searching for a truth beyond earthly borders. In fact, the narrative of the novel starts with a dream, and dreams recur often throughout the story, trading places with memories. One of the last dreams is apparently about Maryja, and is most probably suggestive of her fate, but once again, this dream is without resolution. The main participant of this dream, however, is not Ahiejeu in the flesh, but rather his naked soul: "The dream was simple, almost elementary in terms of images; however, it struck Ahiejeu by its mystery, which was enigmatic even for him who was always able to decode his nighttime charades almost perfectly."^ The omniscient narrator, however, reveals the reason why Ahiejeu is not given the highest truth, either in his dream or in his physical or metaphysical digging: it seems that the highest power does not believe that he can handle the truth: "It seemed, however, that he was frightened by the truth, and the multicoloured mist of hope was much more pleasant to him."1! But this is not the end of the story. The morals of the novel are much more deductive; the end sounds more like a verdict. Ahiejeu realizes that good and evil are equal parts of the same life-giving system, and that both are so closely connected that there are often no borders. He also grasps that Maryja was given to him for his eternal happiness, and that his life without her is doomed because he failed to recognize his fate and carelessly wasted her life. Kar'jer is really simultaneously many things at once: it is one of the most symbolic and pessimistic literary works that Bykau ever wrote; it is a parable; it is a beautiful love story; it is the writer's treatise, in which he analyzes morality and religion: the values of World War One, the Revolution, the Civil War, collectivization, and World War Two, as well

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as the quarter century after the war, are thought over and summed up. In short, this novel raises large questions, and most of them are clearly answered in the course of its narrative. U tumane (In the fog, 1988) There are three corpses lying in Vasil Bykau's darkness of forest and fog: the hesitant executioner, the awaiting hangman, and the criminal who shot himself. The essence was that they were lost in the fog of life and each of them differed from what life was trying to make of them. Igor' Dedkov, Vasil' Bykov

McMillin considers the next work in the fifth volume, Bykau's novella U tumane (In the fog, 1988), to be his "gloomiest work." This notion is easy to argue, keeping in mind the last work of the volume, Ablava (The raid, 1989), whose mood and discourse are the acme of gloom and pessimism. Indeed, by the middle of the 19805, or as soon as perestroika started, Bykau's familiar "optimistic tragedy" gave way to stronger existentialist tendencies. These tendencies are also seen in the titles he gives his works, which conform to the two styles of title favoured by existentialists. These titles are either overtly precise in a concrete sense, with a subtle metaphorical meaning that is either analyzed or overtly stated in the plot - like Ablava (a raid or battle, beating up, cordoning off, roundup) - or they have a prevailing metaphorical meaning, as in The Quarry or In the Fog. McMillin's analysis of the metaphorical title of U tumane is convincing: "The fog of the title is a metaphor for the moral confusion which arises from a combination of the harsh conditions of war, the Germans' cunning, and the perverted Soviet mentality we associate with Stalinism. " J 5 In this respect, Bykau always underlined this very same notion, even in his last literary and journalistic works. This similarity is seen in any form of dictatorship that habitually demands blind submission to the ruling doctrine. According to this novella, such systems inevitably bring an end to the subjects of their demands. U tumane has a stunning beginning: "It was a windy late autumn day in the war's second year when Burau, a scout in a partisans' detachment, went to visit the Mastysca railway station in order to kill Suscenia, his close acquaintance."16 The bold start of the novella alerts the reader to the problem of devaluation of human life. This is a notion to which Bykau returns again and again, showing the reader that both devaluation and dehumanization are especially strongly practised under a totalitarian

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regime. This same predicament is particularly cruel during wartime. Here is what Siamion says in Kar'jer: "It's blind, this wartime fate, it doesn't choose a damn bit. It cuts down anyone who comes its way, most often good people, and many real bastards won't even be touched by a bullet. " J 7 This sentiment, which sounds habitual for many because it reflects a strong belief that good individuals are hurt more frequently than bad ones, is also often present in Bykau's work. The plot of U tumane is not complicated. Partisans, misled and fooled by the German ss and Belarusan police, act under a false assumption. They think that Suscenia, a railway worker, is guilty of treason and that it was he who betrayed the three comrades-in-arms with whom he destroyed a German ammunition train. The partisans are certain of their right to vengeance: Suscenia's friends were hanged and he was not. In fact, he did not betray them, despite being subjected to terrible torture. The Germans, however, have a sinister plan for Suscenia: knowing the partisans' mentality, they anticipate that the partisans will go after Suscenia. In this case, the Germans can use him as a decoy to round up more of the guerillas. The partisans, who take the bait, send Burau and Vojcik to execute Suscenia. On their way to the execution, the three are ambushed; both Burau and Vojcik are heavily wounded, and despite Suscenia's desperate attempt to save them, they are later killed. Suscenia feels trapped once again: no one will believe that he did not kill the two partisans; therefore, for the sake of his family, he has to commit suicide. McMillin completely agrees with Deming Brown's comment that all the Soviet characters of the novella are a rather typical reflection of their Soviet upbringing.18 He concludes with the following: "Bykau's story is not only extremely gloomy, but a severe indictment of what the Soviet regime has done to create homo sovieticus."1? There is no doubt that the novel delineates some concrete features of a Soviet Belarusan peasant. I would argue, however, that the Soviets, who had ruled for only twentyfour years at the time of the novella's events, created nothing new in the human character. It is also doubtful that they changed much about the Belarusan peasant. Let us look at Mamin-Sibiriak's perception of the peasant character, which comes from the nineteenth-century Russian writer who, above all, was a populist. He offers the most typical characteristics of a Siberian peasant, and what is more important, indicates that only prolonged serfdom and enslavement were able to create such negative features in the peasant. Here is a list of characteristics offered by Mamin-Sibiriak: "Insincerity, cunning, imperceptible craftiness that had been developed by generations under the pressure of serfdom."20 It seems

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that all" of these typical features are present in some Belarusan peasants, and for a similar reason. The Soviets did not change anyone a great deal; however, they inspired much more fear, and this addition doubtless added negatively to the moral environment of the peasant. In Bykau's U tumane, peasants are either morally paralyzed or passive. The police, consisting mainly of former Soviet citizens of peasant origin, are no more moral than the partisans (who predominantly share their origins and roots with the Belarusan policemen). Moreover, in terms of morality, in each segment of this work, the protagonists seem to be at fault: the Germans came uninvited, the police are acting against their own kin, and the partisans oppress their own people. Bykau's novella does not have a rich cast of characters. Indeed, only a few of the protagonists have names: Suscenia, his wife, Anelia, and their five-year-old son, Ryhor (Hrysa); two partisans, Burau and Vojcik; and a German ss officer, Dr. Grossmeyer. There are two other sets of characters in the novella, but they are faceless units: the Polizei, organized by the German ss, and the partisans, supported by the Soviets. Both groups to some degree shared qualities, and though they functioned against each other, their manners and culture were similar. Once again, the writer reminds us in a chain of episodes that the Polizei and the partisans were executing the will and policies of their respective masters, the Germans and the Soviets; consequently, in moral terms both types found themselves in a gray area. In practice, however, an average partisan detachment would care more about the local population than an average group of Polizei. This alone made the peasants more co-operative and sympathetic to the partisans. The police and the occupiers often initiated the oppressive actions against the population that increased drastically towards the end of the war. On the other hand, with every kilometre of the regular Soviet Army advance, the partisans became much less offensive to the population. Suscenia and his family, Anelia and Ryhor, as well as two partisans, Burau and Vojcik (despite their Soviet upbringing) have more familiar and "human" faces than the other protagonists. Vojcik, who was a small fish in the Soviet bureaucracy before the war, accordingly has the least pleasant facade. He is suspicious, full of himself with those he considers less worthy, and quick in trying to gain favours with his superiors. In fact, he is the typical little careerist one can find under any regime at any historic time and in any place. Burau is different in both his humanity and morality. Despite his Soviet upbringing, which is similar to Vojcik's, Burau has an inner sense of justice. For the sake of this, he is prepared to risk his personal situation. Burau's most important attribute in the novel

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is his ability to think for himself. Thus, Burau redeems himself morally and in human terms as soon as he starts to trust Suscenia: when he is dying, the partisan asks Vojcik to spare an unfortunate man. Suscenia, also a classic Soviet peasant, is the most humane character of all, not only because of his immense courage - Burau is also a courageous person - but because of his strong love for his wife, Anelia, and his son, Ryhor. This sentiment often accompanies Suscenia's descriptions. Throughout the novella, and particular by the end, the narrator continues to underline Suscenia's righteous motives: "He was always trying to be a good husband and a father, but the war, or his wretched fate, are much stronger than he ... God alone knows how he loved them, and what trials and purgatory he underwent only for their sake! Maybe everything would go differently if not for this love of his, which was calculatingly used by others, and cornered him, and left his family hostage."ZI In the name of this love, and in the hope that his family will survive, Suscenia commits suicide. What does this sad act bring to his family? It gives them the chance to continue their existence and offers some future for Ryhor, Suscenia's son. As in the following novella, Ablava, where the major theme is parental love, this suicide is inevitable, but it is also a most powerful symbol of the system's hopelessness and indecency. Ablava (The raid, 1989) My parents, and probably others, remembered the 1920s as the best years of their lives, though that golden age was a very short period. As a child I remember a good deal about how different the food was before the collectivization. How delicious were those pancakes my mother used to make! And the sour cream! The best in the world! And pork sandwiches! After the collectivization I dreamt about this food, and my siblings and I would often wake up at night, crying out in hunger after these dreams. Hunger haunted us practically all year long, and the people who surrounded us, for whom food production was in their genes, generation after generation, were in the same thorny circumstances. Vasil Bykau, personal communication

Bykau was one of the first Belarusan writers to show a picture of collectivization in Belarus that would be entire and true, panoramic and full of deep insights. Even his battlefield portraits, as we noticed earlier, often

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revealed the horrendous ordeal of Stalin's enterprise: collectivization. Znak biady and, in particular, Bykaii's partisan novels and novellas, carry a strongly pronounced judgment of the collectivization. His novel Sciuza, for example, is more like a chronicle of Belarusan peasant life during and after the collectivization. Later we will examine this novel, which was allowed to appear in the sixth volume of his collected words, though practically at the last moment. Ablava (The raid) was written in the third year of perestroika, when publishing in Belarus briefly became a bit freer from censorship. The novella describes a single family, and on the basis of their fate shows the hell that collectivization brought into the lives of these rather ordinary people. The plot of this novella is even more localized that that of Bykaii's other works. It revolves around the fate of Chviodar Rouba, a Belarusan peasant who has been subjected to de-kulakization. His life has taken a most unfortunate turn during collectivization. The reader meets Rouba when he is alone, on the run from the place of his exile, eastern Siberia, and almost on the doorstep of his native village. Rouba had been loyal and grateful to the Soviets who gave him, a landless poor fellow, some good land; but he was exiled to Siberia after he single-handedly improved the economic situation of his nuclear family. Rouba worked very hard on his land and little by little was able to afford some agricultural equipment: first a plough, and later a threshing machine, both on credit. Whatever he did, the writer underlines the fact that Chviodar Rouba is an exceptionally skilled, hard worker; and if he was trying to earn a good living, he did it first of all for his family. Rouba is the main breadwinner for the family: his wife, Hanulka, his parents, his son, Mikalaj, and a little daughter, Volecka. The threshing machine was actually his son's idea, but since Rouba was the only peasant in the village to have one, for the authorities this machine became the evidence of his wealth. The reader first finds Chviodar Rouba when, of his immediate family, only his son is left living. His parents are dead; Hanulka has passed on from the inhuman conditions and labour to which the exiled Belarusan peasantry was subject. Volecka soon followed her mother's fate. She was living with her father, who secretly kept Volecka on a raft while he was working on a timber float. There his daughter contracted fatal pneumonia. Mikalaj, the son, is also the only member of the family who was not exiled. On the contrary, his career flourishes while his family situation continually declines. Mikalaj, an entrepreneurial young man, manages to find his way in the dark seas of the Soviet bureaucracy: he learns that

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treachery pays in this system, and for the sake of his career, he rejects and denounces his parents and his little sister. In the course of the narrative, however, we learn that Mikalaj was not always a hard, soulless individual. He learned the tricks that have made him as the reader finds him in order to survive under the Soviets. As a child, he was a nice boy with a tender soul: once he kept a bird with a broken leg under his bed for the whole winter, and saved it. As a youth, however, Mikalaj's change of heart was visible even to his parents when, as an active member of a Komsomol organization, he initiates the banning of his closest friend from the membership. His friend's "crime" was yielding to his poor and widowed mother's request to keep an icon in a corner of their humble dwelling. At the time of his parents' exile, the Red Army drafted Mikalaj, and while he was serving, Mikalaj "improved" his political views. The peasant boy was found so "capable" by his superiors that, when he was demobilized, he became one of the party bosses in the district where he was born. Mikalaj's moral degradation is such that he does not just renounce his father's name but is also the chief organizer of the search for his father. When others give up the search, he continues to inspire his team to go farther out into the marshes in order to get Chviodar Rouba. The reader does not know Mikalaj's train of thoughts; we learn of his actions only from the narrator or from Rouba's memories. The discourse of the novella, in particular when Mikalaj's transformation is completed, clearly demonstrates that people like Mikalaj are not human and therefore cannot have any human thoughts. They become a mere type, mechanized to the point that they live without feelings and emotions. Rouba's thoughts and emotions are contrasted to his son's, and narrated vividly and in full detail. Almost drowned in the marches where he is hiding from his hunters, Roiiba thinks of his son, pitying him and trying to justify Mikalaj's actions: However, maybe he will have a chance to steal a look at his son at least, before the very end? Poor Mikolka: what are his feelings now? Of course he is not acting of his own will - they made him! Maybe he was acting under orders? By somebody who is really in charge? After all, perhaps, he has a boss as well. And he, this boss, sent him to the forest to hunt his father, whom he betrayed. Once he has renounced his father, he is free to trap him. But if something like this is possible, then how is one to continue living? Maybe he will be ordered, when he traps his father, to question him? And his son will torment him? Oh, God, why did you create this white world then! - Liascuk, try over there!

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- That was also Mikolka - somewhere from afar with a hard bossy voice unknown to Chviodar. This voice he had acquired already when he was on his own and without his father. How lucky his mother is that she does not see this. And that she does not hear.2-2

Chviodar Rouba comes to his native place with only one idea in mind: he wants to die where he was born. He also hopes to catch a glimpse of his son, and though this is not granted to him, he hears his son's voice. Here is the narrator's final comment on this poor peasant's fate: "He was not given the chance to lead a normal life; however, he was lucky to die quietly. " X 3 One has an uneasy feeling with such an ending, not because Rouba's "luck" is constructed so tragically but because of the almost pious conclusion. In other words, this "luck" does not reflect Bykau's usual verisimilitude. Bykau, who has always been able to step back in order to achieve objectivity in his writing, slips a little at the end of this novella. The novella's ending is rather sentimental and judgmental for one who is generally rather sober in his work. It is not too difficult to understand, however, where this sentimentality comes from. Bykau is describing his parents' generation in Ablava, i.e., the generation toward which he personally feels an incredible mixture of guilt and pity. When Bykau remembers his parents (as seen in the interviews), the correspondence between the fates of Chviodar Rouba in Ablava and the writer's father Uladzimir Bykau, is notable: both were soldiers in Samsonov's army; both were captured during World War One; and both were taken to work for a German farmer. The only difference is that Bykau's parents were not exiled (though some neighbours were uprooted for less than the mere exposure to Western life that his father had experienced during his captivity). Nevertheless, the fact is that anyone could have shared the elder Bykau's fate, and too many innocent people did. The situation of the uprooted and exiled peasants was even more difficult than the thorny life of the writer's parents. This sentiment alone is probably responsible for the overdose of sentimentality that the reader experiences at the end of this otherwise masterly work. This sentimentality, however, is completely eradicated in Vasil Bykau's Sciuza, his most vivid and realistic work about collectivization in Belarus.

CHAPTER SEVEN

On Oppression in War and Peace Poor Folks

Peasantry is a social class. It is formed during the disintegration of a primitive-communal system, when a family unit takes its economic share of a legacy. In a pre-capitalistic system, the peasantry is a class of small agricultural economies where each family conducts its own business. The peasantry differentiates under capitalism, and can be divided into village proletarians (agricultural hired help); half-proletariat, or partial peasantry (those who can provide for themselves only partially from their own or rented land); middle-class peasants (which in some countries appeared as small- and middle-sized farming economies); large peasant economies are the village bourgeois. Processes of intensive industrialization of agriculture and vertical integration in developed capitalist countries after World War II evoked mass destitution and politicization of the peasantry ... The double nature of a peasant: he is both a landowner and a worker, and this is one of the main factors that determines fluctuation between proletariat and bourgeoisie. An overlapping of the fundamental antimonopoly interests of working peasantry and the working class is the basis of their union (under the leadership of the working class) in a class-liberating struggle. Under the socialist system, peasantry is a class of co-operative agricultural production workers that have a collective economy. The difference between the working class and peasantry should disappear gradually as the industrialization of agriculture takes place. The two different kinds of ownership are cancelled: changing the organization and pay structure for collective farmers' labour, and including them in the social benefit system that is provided for workers and public servants will eliminate the difference in the social status of workers and peasants. Soviet Encyclopedic Dictionary

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The last volume of the collected works opens with Vasil Bykau's short novel Sciuza. This work continues the theme of Belarusan peasantry and reflects the writer's dedication to their life and fate. In this connection, it was interesting to consider the above definition of peasantry in one of the post-perestroika editions of the Soviet Encyclopedic Dictionary (1990). This entry was published in the fourth year of perestroika, when the state of Soviet collective farms was still pitiful and their future bleak. In the fourth year of perestroika, the supposedly democratic government's general attitude towards the peasantry was as it had been in I9Z7, when the first kolkhozes (Soviet collective farms) were organized. The state of affairs established and proved the same discriminatory and almost spiteful position initiated by the Bolsheviks immediately after their success in 1917. In addition, we should notice that according to the encyclopedia epigraph, the proletariat sustained the same position of more "progressive" class than the peasantry. Despite the theory that the peasantry, with its historically proven private entrepreneurial aspirations, could have led in perestroika, it never happened: Soviet rule completely destroyed any entrepreneurial inclinations in the peasants. The very same attitude toward the peasantry that prevailed in the former Soviet Union has continued in the new millennium. Changes in respect to agricultural communal economies are slowly happening only in this century, and not everywhere in the former Soviet Union. Thus today, when Russia and Ukraine, for the most part, have rid themselves of collective farms, Belarus is still clinging to its old Soviet way of farming. Though the Belarusans agree that kolkhozes have no future, they also know that their collective farms will last as long as Lukasenka will. After all, the country's president was himself the former chief of one of the impoverished kolkhozes, and seems to be nostalgic about the old ways. Lukasenka has always blamed bad weather for the crisis in Belarusan agriculture. Such an attitude is well illustrated in one of the oldest agricultural jokes from Soviet times: We have four main problems: spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Vasil Bykau has a sober understanding of the situation of the peasantry in his country. He understands that Soviet rule took away the most important quality that the peasantry had before the Soviets: their love for the land. Once he told me the story of one case in Russia that serve as an illustration of what is going on in Belarus, as well as in other countries of the former Soviet Union: VB: Well, it is a notorious story. Carnicenka is a writer, a journalist; he is also a well-known public figure, a deputy in the Duma and head of

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the Moscow Writers' Union. In addition, Carnicenka started a Peasants' Party in Russia. Several years ago, he acquired fifty hectares of land in Horki (Gorkii) district. Carnicenka was very enthusiastic about this project, but unfortunately he was stopped at the very beginning by overwhelming resistance from everyone and everything. Resistance was strongest on the local level: the workers of the nearby collective farm, who drank regularly, did not like his initiatives. The leaders of the district, former communists, also could not accept him. Imagine, a private economy in their neighborhood! He was- like a thorn in their eyes. They wanted him to leave and that was it. First, he could not get the means to work his land: banks would not give him a loan for purchasing equipment. And the taxation department was already after him, demanding taxes from the produce he didn't yet have. Psychologically he was in a bad state: not a single friendly face around him. The locals wanted him to leave them alone as soon as possible so they could continue to drink the way they used to. There are so many cases where new farms with all their livestock are set on fire ... The most dreadful problem is that the law does not support these new farmers and their initiatives, but rather works against them.1 Russia, however, has recently made a number of positive and decisive steps towards agricultural privatization, actively encouraging individual agricultural establishments since 2001, while Belarus is still paralyzed by its collective farms. In the same interview it became clear that Vasil Bykau was also not fully satisfied with contemporary "village" prose. When I asked him about the state of this genre, he offered the following comment: "Our 'village writers,' as a rule, prefer to render a portrait of the peasantry in rosy or light blue colours, while Zola, for example, used the colours of the soil: black, brown, and gray."2- The origin of this dissatisfaction is more than understandable. Vasil Bykau was one of these rare individuals who still remember life before collectivization broke the back of the peasantry in the Soviet empire. In his short novel Sauza he writes exclusively about the Belarusan peasants and produces a comprehensive picture that illuminates both the distant and the recent past of the entire empire. In addition, the collectivization clearly emerges from his powerful chronicle as a shameful phenomenon. The writer's emotional memory in Sciuza works as a revealing instrument, reviving atrocities of the totalitarian state, all of which, moreover, are applicable to the geographical and political areas of the former Soviet Union. The reader discovers that in painting the canvas of Sciuza Bykau is mixing Zola's palette of black, brown, and gray.3

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Sc/uza(The chill, 1991

[1969]) A moan rises from the village. The cavalry is trampling the grain and changing horses. In exchange for worn-out hacks the cavalry takes draft horses. No one is to blame. You can't have an army without horses. Isak Babel, Sochineniia v dvukh tomakh

For a long time, an enduring moan was heard throughout the villages of Belarus. However, the sufferings of the Belarusan peasants have never made any impact on those who had the power to eliminate their destitution. This tragedy reached its peak in the late twenties and early thirties with the introduction of collectivization, which proved to be a deadly experiment for most of the Belarusan population: the peasantry. Although Bykau does not provide specific numerical data in Sciuza, the work is not only an emotional literary chronicle of Belarusan history but also points to who is to blame, and reconstructs the reasons for that blame. The scope of this catastrophe, the collectivization in Belarus, is still difficult to measure in actual numbers, for two main reasons. First, the archives were partially destroyed during and after World War Two. Second, those Belarusan peasants who did not accept collectivization were exiled - sometimes this meant entire villages - and most of them were not subjected to any census.4 As a result, their individual fates, their time served in labour camps, and their frequent deaths from exposure (hunger and/or cold), remained largely unrecorded.5 One of the books by Uladzimir Adamuska brings together the surviving archival data of the period.6 According to Adamuska, 12,5,032. members of the kulak families were dispossessed in 1930. During the years 1931-34 (the completion of collectivization), the number of victims rose to 2,61,000 in the central and eastern parts of Belarus. Furthermore, Adamuska adds the numbers of dispossessed peasants from western Belarus, which reached 349,000 people by the beginning of the 19505; the total is rounded up to 600,000 for all the victims of the regime between the 19205 and the 19508. Sciuza is not the only work by Vasil Bykaii that carries a strong anticollectivization theme. Most of his works written in the 19805 explored this topic, and those written earlier always held a strongly negative opinion of the collectivization. Besides U tumane (In the fog, 1988) and Ablava (The raid, 1989), already mentioned in this chapter, Znak biady (Sign of misfortune, 1984), Abielisk (The obelisk, 1986), and even works

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as far back as Alpijskaja balada, (Alpine ballad, 1963), also show the massive pain, senselessness, and atrocities that collectivization brought to the Belarusan peasants. Sciuza, however, is the most poignant and perceptive criticism of the phenomenon that has ever been written in Belarus. This novel was written in 1969 and rewritten in 1991.7 The same dates appear in the last book of Bykau's six-volume set of collected works.8 One would search in vain, however, in the reputable 1992, Belarusan Encyclopedia for this short novel's title or its dates of publication.? In fact, Sciuza was found to be unpublishable by the editorial board of Bykau's publisher, even when the first few volumes of the collected works were already selling in bookstores. The novel was accepted for publication only in late 1992, and Sciuza became the starring piece of the final volume. The reason for such a delay was Bykau's strong anticollectivization sentiment. The plot of the novel is constructed around the fate of Jahor Azevic, a peasant's son from a Belarusan family. In Sciuza, Azevic, whose personal life becomes a metaphor for collectivization in Belarus, is given the role of chronicler. The collectivization coincides with his youth, when Azevic is a member of the Komsomol organization. This membership makes it easier for the early Soviet system to mobilize Jahor Azevic as a coachman for a Soviet district official, Zaruba. Azevic, who has little choice, does not refuse the draft, and has to leave his home and way of life behind. Azevic is portrayed as a hard-working but naive and poorly educated individual. He finds himself in a district town amongst those with "greater political consciousness." Azevic resolves to improve his own education. The direction he chooses for such an improvement lies within the framework of Bolshevik ideas and propaganda. In many ways it is a natural development for Azevic, considering his origins and surroundings. Azevic, who demonstrates the required zeal and energy, succeeds as an activist and is promoted to work on a district committee. During the course of his ascent, he unwillingly becomes an agent of the NKVD and betrays the trust (always under pressure or by accident) of the people he likes most, beginning with his boss, Zaruba. Jahor Azevic actively participates in the collectivization. Even before the war he is described as a typically soulless Soviet bureaucrat, the finished product of the Bolshevik system that has created him. The reader who first read Sciuza in the 1993 edition should have noticed the brief epigraph on the title page. Although it contains very important information (not only in regard to the structure of the story but also concerning the personal fate of Jahor Azevic), the epigraph is absent

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from the collected works. The epigraph is presented as if it were taken from a roadside monument: THE TRUE PATRIOTS OF THE SOVIET MOTHERLAND ARE BURIED HERE

Major Zaludou Partisan Paciupa A. G. Red Army soldier Kryvasein K. S. Partisan Haladucha S. Partisan Struk S. J. Partisan Paciupa A. G. Partisan Azevic J. I. ETERNAL GLORY TO THE HEROES

The attentive reader will notice Azevic's name among the others on the memorial. Readers who do not read the epigraph, however, have the advantage of being thrown into the middle of the events. They first meet the protagonist during World War Two in a Belarusan forest, where he is alone with a dead body. The body, beside which Azevic awakes one late autumn morning, belongs to one of his pre-war bosses and comrades-in-arms, the district prosecutor, Haradzilau. Both of them, Haradzilaii and Azevic, were the last members of a small partisan detachment active during the first five months of the war. The detachment was formed by the Soviet leaders of the area and consisted only of Communist Party and Komsomol members. As a unit, it had a poor relationship with the local people. At first this is hard to comprehend, since most of the members, including Azevic, were locals themselves. Azevic's memories, however, soon reveal why this is so: most of the members of this detachment took part in the collectivization, and the local population apparently remembers the atrocities to which they were subjected during that process. When Jahor Azevic first encounters a situation where a former Soviet soldier is going to inform on him, he experiences a fit of anger. Later on, however, this anger subsides and he comes to terms with the fact that part of the population preferred German occupation to the Bolsheviks. Sciuza is told in third-person narration, but often switches to the first person when the main character is involved. The novel starts with an inversion, and the narrative is related mainly in the past tense; the present tense is rarely used, and then only during Azevic's reminiscences of the past. Through its mode of narration, the novel becomes an eyewitness account by an omniscient narrator, who serves to confirm the emotions of

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characters. At the same time, this account creates an expressive distance between the narrator and other characters. Alienating words and phrases, such as "something," "some kind of," "it seemed," contribute to the distancing techniques. Furthermore, words and phrases like "he thought" and "he agreed," separate the narrator from the other protagonists. Such an approach often evokes a clear sense of irony in a literary work. One looks in vain for irony in Vasil Bykau's Sciuza, where the narrator serves more as a guide for the reader. It is as if he takes his readers by the hand and shows them the lives of the Belarusan people, most of whom, including the main character, live in a fog. The readers are guided so carefully and intimately during the narrative that they feel like participants in the events. This is concurrent with the demonstration of how life used to be before and after the collectivization, and during the first part of World War Two. The tone of the disinterested narrator adds a flavour of verisimilitude to the story. Bykau also allows the consciousness of the characters to interpret events, often relegating the narrator's consciousness to second place. By implementing this process gradually in the narrative, the author relegates the narrator's conclusions again to the background, while the main protagonist of Sciuza, Azevic, comes to difficult and painful realizations. Rhetorical questions (most of which are resolved in the end of Sciuza) characterize his inner monologues in the novel. The structure of Sciuza is carefully crafted. It consists of small scenes (sometimes no more than a paragraph) that take the form of flashbacks, connected by the mode of narration or the narrator's comments. These episodes are not at all in chronological order, but the time cue is always at hand, and so there can be no doubt when an action is taking place. All the scenes are transparently visual, and the reader is given the impression of a good movie with excellent editing. This is especially vivid within flashback scenes, when there is no actual delineation between present and past events. The result is as if a cameraman (the narrator) momentarily moves his camera to another object (nature, in most instances). After a moment the cameraman points his camera straight at the protagonist again, and a clear view of the historical events emerges. Bykau's supreme skilfulness in telling the story is proven once again through the linear and barely noticeable transitions between episodes in Sciuza. Flashbacks are interspersed with the present through a very important part of the narrative - its major agent, nature. It happens so naturally that one feels a moment portrayed in the past as vividly as if it is happening in the present. Nature always plays a major role in Bykau's writing, as we have noted many times. Nature, however, takes two directions in his literary works.

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If an action is happening outside Belarus, Bykau's characters remember Belarusan nature in favourable terms, usually in dreams or memories, a reflection of the author's compassion for his characters. In such cases nature plays the role of a pacifier, often in the form of a cheerful promise or a pleasant dream. It comes to a protagonist either on the eve of an important event, or during a short but happy break in days that are otherwise full of hardships. We have seen many examples of this device in Bykau's earlier work. A different picture is presented when the story unfolds within Belarus. In such cases, the role of nature is more versatile: it can be beautiful, harmonious, and amicable for the protagonists, or it can be harsh and even merciless towards them. It is interesting to note that with the exception of Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany bridge, 1969) Sciuza (The chill) had not been published then - the harshness of nature is a constant theme in Bykau's later writings. Znak biady (Sign of misfortune, 1984), Abielisk (The monument [The obelisk], 1986), U tumane (In the fog, 1988), Ablava (The raid, 1989), and many other works that describe nature's negative impact on human lives, were written mainly in the late 19805. Sciuza is also influenced by Belarusan nature. Sauza's title carries a triple metaphorical meaning, which can be attributed to the state of nature, humanity, and social conditions in Belarus. Consequently, a chill pervades every single episode in Bykau's novel. Azevic is almost always cold. With very few exceptions, since he was drafted, Azevic has suffered physically from the chill. The exceptions are mainly connected with his love stories. During the course of the narrative we learn that Azevic has been rather lucky in love: in his life he has loved three times. His love was shared twice: he experienced only one unsuccessful relationship. It is only in cases of mutual love that feelings of frost, chill, and cold disappear completely from the narrative. His first love was Nastacka, a girl from a neighbouring village whose occupants were mainly Belarusan Catholics (the Azevic family was Orthodox). At first, the serene and poetic relationship of two young people in love is drawn in the lyrical manner of Maksim Bahdanovic.10 A chill reappears as soon as Jahor falls out of love with Nastacka and starts a complex and passionate relationship with Palina, a successful and highly positioned young Communist Party member. Palina initiates intimate relations with Jahor Azevic, but leaves him as soon as he signs a document denouncing Azevic's boss and patron, Zaruba, a document that she herself prepared under Azevic's name. Confused and naive, Azevic is devastated and mourns Palina's betrayal long after her abrupt departure from his life. On his way home from one of the collectivization raids, he

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languishes, and ponders both his boss and victim Zaruba and his lover Palina, the initiator of Zaruba's disappearance: Azevic could not get rid of the feeling that the district was suffering greatly because of Zaruba's absence ... Though it was hardly believable that he could be an enemy, on the other hand ... Weren't there quite a few evil people around them who were saboteurs and spies? Maybe they had deceptively tricked him, and dragged Zaruba to the wreckers' side. After all it was not a complicated matter to implicate him: he was so trusting and good-natured. Azevic was really very sorry, and he was silently consumed by self-reproach that he himself was guilty of Zaruba's demise. It was true that he had not participated in it freely, and acted more against his own will. Palina! She was his major pain and riddle, maybe for all the years ahead of him. What kind of person was she, Palina? What sort of a woman?11

By the time Azevic's third and strongest love comes to him, he has reached enough maturity in his personal and professional life to know the answer to that torturous question. Palina, a career bureaucrat like himself, was fearful of the NKVD, whose interests she undoubtedly represented. At that time, people like her achieved a double goal by cooperating with the NKVD. First, they spared themselves (if only temporarily); and second, they promoted their own careers. The reader finds that this strong fear of the state is lifted temporarily from Azevic's life when he falls in love with Anelia. And again, as with Nastacka and the beginning of his passionate love for Palina, the chill leaves together with the fear. This true love, his strongest and last, brings Jahor Azevic some temporarily serenity and happiness, and also seems to offer a chance for salvation: "A time of new uneasiness, simultaneously joyful and heartbreaking, came to Azevic. Wherever he found himself during the daytime, as soon as evening came, he would run over to his neighbours, and together with Anelia they usually went to the river, or to the People's House, if something interesting was taking place over there; or they simply sat on a bench under the wall, close to her peonies. Anelia was a smart and talkative girl who had read a lot of books, and made it a point to tell Jahor, who apparently had not read a tenth as much, about everything she read."12 Azevic is about to marry Anelia when her father, a former teacher in Petrograd who is working as a bookkeeper at the flax plant, is arrested. Her father has been accused of a common crime of the times: sabotage. These accusations were the customary justification for the failure of an economic plan. The NKVD, however, is pursuing an additional common goal in the case of Anelia's family. Her

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mother is of noble origin, and the NKVD was always on guard for people with such "faults." Jahor Azevic, in turn, would never jeopardize his position in life and marry Anelia after her father's arrest. Consequently, fear for his own fate would help him to forget her: "It was very unpleasant for him to remember his trips to the bookkeeper Sviaderski, who was discovered to be a saboteur at the flax factory. Nevertheless, Jahor's heart ached greatly for Sviaderski's daughter, Anelia. One day, at long last, his hurting stopped."^ All of Bykaii's literary works could be united by a common subtitle: "Fear," as in Anatoly Rybakov's novel Tridtsaf piatyi i drugie gody (The fear.)J4 This subtitle would reflect the major motif in many of his works: a protagonist either overcomes fear, or fear conquers an individual. Fear plays the role of a sixth sense; smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight are often placed in subordination to it in Bykaii's prose. Most cases of fear in this writer's literary works are represented either by fear of the state or the state's watchdog, the secret police. This notion corresponds with Grossman's Everything Flows, in which the latter analyzes the origins of four different types of informers in a totalitarian state.xs Although both writers examine the reaction to fear and its consequences on a human soul, Bykau's informers of Jahor Azevic's type (who are rooted in the same kind of fear as Grossman's protagonists) are, above all, victims themselves. In his short story "Palkavodzec" (The commander), Bykau describes the philosophy of fear practised by the Soviet leaders. The leaders knew well that "Only with an ever-greater terror might one bring pressure to bear upon people stupefied and stunned by fear."16 From the inception of the secret police, and throughout its existence, this is one of the types of fear employed by the secret service in every corner of the former Soviet Union. In Sciuza, however, Bykau was the first writer to recognize and chronicle a reversed sense of fear: the Bolsheviks' phobia of the ordinary people in connection with collectivization. As a consequence of this fear, there is no trust, not only between Belarusan peasants and their communist leaders but also among the leaders themselves. Azevic remembers that as soon as their first partisan detachment commenced actions, there were at least three instances of betrayal by members who were trusted communists before the war. Therefore he does not expect much from the peasants: "After all, people are different, in particular now, during the war. Some might help, and some might sell him out - either out of fear or simply to gain favour with the Germans and to suck up to them."1? His foreboding is subsequently realized. After a former Red Army soldier and his family betray Azevic

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(with the intention of denouncing him to the Germans), his old friend Vajciusonak, a former communist himself and a Soviet Belarusan bureaucrat, refuses to shelter him. Vajciusonak reveals his reservations about providing assistance to his former comrade-in-arms with whom he participated in the collectivization. His story is horrendous, but typical of the period. After collectivization, the communist leaders, using the NKVD as their primary tool, were always on the lookout for the reasons of its failure. Although Vajciusonak was a zealous member of the party, the NKVD arrested him; their henchmen tortured him and released him only after he agreed to serve as an informer. Vajciusonak went back to his native village, initially working as a schoolteacher. However, when the Germans came, he easily adopted the almost-forgotten peasant's way of life, which was so dear to his heart. Though at first Azevic does not take Vajciusonak's refusal to shelter him well, many of his former ideas and perceptions change with the hardships he experiences while wandering through the chilly forests. On the verge of physical exhaustion and possible death, alone perhaps for the first time since he joined the Bolsheviks, Azevic's judgment matures, and he comes to understand both himself and Vajciusonak better. As a result, Azevic's feelings concerning the fate of the Belarusan people become stronger than his own self-interest. He begins to think that he and Vajciusonak deserve their fate because they did not suffer enough with the Belarusans during the collectivization. Often in spite of themselves, both men had inflicted additional pain on the people by collaborating with the higher authorities. Again and again, Bykau examines fear as the main source of people's actions, and he questions the degree to which fear can justify human behaviour. During one of many flashbacks, Azevic remembers his acquaintance with Daroska, a local teacher who was labeled a nacdem (national democrat), or, simply, a nationalist. The local Soviet authorities accuse Daroska of nationalism for staging Belarusan plays and popularizing the Belarusan language. To punish Daroska, the authorities first sentence him to labour in the sawmill where Azevic happens to be the secretary of the Komsomol unit. One of Azevic's functions is to re-educate Daroska ideologically. Since Daroska is a much better educated individual than Azevic, this situation assumes a gloomy but ironic course. Azevic, however, soon realizes that it is not Daroska, but he himself, who is in need of re-education: "Maybe he is right, - thought Azevic. He could not argue with Daroska, because he felt that the latter was better educated not only in science, but even in politics."18 As soon as Azevic becomes conscious of this fact, the irony is imme-

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diately lifted from his complex relationship with Daroska, which later develops into one of mutual sympathy, if not friendship. Azevic's respect for Daroska derives not only from the teacher's obvious intellectual superiority but also from his high moral qualities. The teacher shows courage in standing by his beliefs, undoubtedly triggering temporary changes in Azevic's behaviour. When an agent of the secret police tries to force Azevic to denounce the teacher, he does not comply. The agent uses all imaginable threats, reminding Azevic of his role in the Zaruba affair and pairing it with that of Daroska, but nothing can stop Azevic in his first victory over fear. Characteristically in Sciuza's narrative, the metaphor of the chill is present throughout this scene. This time, however, it is not Azevic, but the NKVD agent, Milavan, who experiences it from the start: "At the table draped in familiar scarlet velvet that now was covered with dirty spots, Milavan sat; cold, he muffled himself up in a military trench coat; he looked distrustfully at Jahor and without responding to his 'Good evening,' reproached him: 'you are late.'"1? An account of this interrogation could be considered highly instructive for historians of that era. Furthermore, these scenes of interrogation in the novel are so typical of the time that they can also serve as a cultural symbol. It is obvious that the writer has thoroughly researched the phenomenon. Belarus, like any other place in the Soviet empire, provides rich material for such research. In Bykau's chronicle of the events during the collectivization and World War Two, the holocaust of Belarusan teachers coincides with the tragedy of the Belarusan peasants and parallels the theme of collectivization. Daroska is undoubtedly one of Bykau's favourite protagonists. He is the direct personification of Vasil Bykau's beliefs, expressed many times in his public writings and speeches.20 One such belief, in which Bykau constructs the distinction between a patriot and a nationalist, is particularly appropriate for its humanistic value in a troubled world. This idea is also prominent in Sciuza, where Daroska formulates and explains it to Azevic in one sentence: "A patriot loves something of his own, while a nationalist hates everything different or diverse."21 For ideas such as this, Daroska is prosecuted; nevertheless, he leaves such a strong impression on Azevic's soul that it makes his redemption possible. Daroska is not the only teacher in the novel. In the episode during Azevic's wanderings, he meets a village woman with two children who gives him a lift in her cart. This woman is the sister and the sister-in-law of the two teachers, the children's parents, who were killed by the partisans. Their only "fault" was that a German officer chose their house, the

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cleanest in the village, as his living quarters. This story evokes a storm of emotions in Azevic: The woman started to cry while Azevic was sitting silently and deep in thought. What should he do, how could he comfort these people? Maybe there was a way out, and maybe there wasn't. How could one understand now who is guilty? The war and people's cruelty, hate and irreconcilability, are accountable for tearing apart people's souls. They shot, massacred, ruined people without giving it much thought, it didn't matter whether they shed their own blood or the enemy's. Did it really start only with war? No, before the war everything was just the same. They started a war among themselves a long time ago, and with great success ... Now, after this nighttime trip and conversation, he started to understand these teachers and their concern for the children. It was love of their children, and not a desire to lick German boots, that made them stand up to the guerillas.iz

Bykau's protagonist comes to a realization regarding the similarity of the methods and behaviour of all rulers in totalitarian states. Symbolically, Daseuski, the first secretary of the Communist Party's district committee, becomes a police official in the German occupiers' administration.23 Azevic reflects on the fact that the Germans, the partisans, and before them, the Soviet leadership, have imposed their will on the population with all possible institutions at their disposal. Azevic recalls how the same thing had happened in the course of the collectivization, when the hard-line, ideological marriage of the NKVD and the Communist Party became the foundation of this campaign. Azevic's flashbacks of the collectivization provide an accurate account of how collectivization was first introduced to, and later imposed on, the Belarusans. For a short period at the very beginning of the campaign, the party relied predominantly on its own propaganda, which failed miserably. Propagandists and agitators of Zaruba's type sincerely tried to convince the peasants to replace their morality with that of the industrial working class. The Belarusan peasants, however, were not interested: Jahor knew that he (Zaruba), as well as his family, came from Viciebsk's working class. And here, locally, he was dealing only with peasants - some poor and others of average means. And he, being a blue-collar worker, was campaigning for collective farms ... Villagers didn't understand him. Why? -Jahor didn't understand it either. No matter how hard they were petitioned for constructing a better life in collective farms, they didn't want to join, they resisted it; the collective farms were organized only under great pressure from the party members and were always opposed by the peasants.2"*

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As soon as the first attempt to organize collective farms began to fade, the secret police was sent to "repair" the situation; its role in keeping the new order intact never changed, even after collectivization was generally completed. One of the most heartbreaking episodes in the novel happens when Azevic participates in the expropriation and destruction of the millstones that each Belarusan household had for grinding wheat into flour to make bread, tyurya (porridge), and pancakes. Azevic, who knows the importance of this "food processor," is forced to perform this act of vandalism even in his own home. To his credit, he never recovers from it emotionally: "They also broke many rounded millstones, new and thick, old and thin; once again a moan and curse rose from the village. Some women begged, pointing at the small children who needed to eat; they swore that they had given away everything and that there was no seed left. "'Oh, there is nothing left,' snapped Daseuski. - 'So why are you crying then, if there is nothing to grind? Strike, Azevic!' And Azevic destroyed them."^ The millstones were taken from all the homes that had not yet joined collective farms. The authorities did this in addition to imposing extra taxation for households like Azevic's parents, who were not in a hurry to join the collective farms. On his way to town after one such raid, Azevic reflects that the peasants are wrong to blame the local authorities for the atrocities of the collectivization: "Heartlessness toward the peasants wasn't the fault of local leadership - all of this came from above, maybe from the very top. And the local authorities sometimes tried to soften and alleviate these cruel instructions and orders, which would quite often end rather badly for a number of them. Perhaps it was exactly through this that Zaruba met his sad fate; his humanity was evidently standing in the way of new policies in relation to the peasantry."26 Azevic also remembered how his own father had searched for a special higher truth for the peasantry. Like many Belarusan peasants before him, his father traditionally looked up to the authorities for answers. When the process of collectivization becomes forceful, Jahor's father comes to his son seeking advice. The father's claim that Kalinin knows nothing of the enforcement taking place in the Belarusan villages is coupled with his hope that the peasants might find justice among some honest and sincere bureaucrats either in Miensk or in Moscow. This is a remnant of the people's traditional faith in a kind but misinformed tsar. When Jahor discourages these hopes, his father proclaims after careful thought: "If ours, the peasants' truth, is dead, no other will ever be. Then everything will end and die."2-? During his wanderings, Jahor Azevic effectively revisits the entire

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process of collectivization. The collective and individual sufferings of the Belarusan population included a whole range of mistreatments, from the deportation of entire villages to continuous arrests, missing persons, and the physical or mental destruction of the innocent. In Bykau's chronicle, however, the Belarusan peasants not only demonstrate both conformity and non-conformity to both types of rulers, the Soviet colonizers and the German occupiers, but they also demonstrate the highest level of tolerance, compassion, and humanity towards others, including their oppressors. When Azevic falls ill, a simple Belarusan woman nurses him back to health. This woman had lost her husband (one of the honest folk who worked diligently at the collective farm) due to the NKVD repressions. Her son is missing in action, and she has little hope of ever seeing him again. Although this woman knows the identity of her guest (indeed, Azevic personally destroyed her millstones during one of the raids), she welcomes him, an unfortunate wounded fugitive, with the warmth of a relative. Azevic is unaware that she recognizes him; after hearing her story, he reflects on the following: And now she shares her bread with the one who trashed and destroyed her millstones. Does she not know or guess who he is? Does she not hold grudges against him and the others? Those who were recently Komsomol members, propagandists, and those who worked for the district party committee? What kind of a character is this - benevolent, or undiscriminating between good and evil? What is it? Is it something typical for peasants, or women? Is this, in particular, national? Where did it come from, and is it good or not? And what if this agreeableness spreads toward the Germans? They might think that the Germans are no worse. Furthermore, they allow [the Belarusans] to eat their own bread, and the Bolsheviks didn't.18

Sauza's style of narration changes when Bykau's protagonist rethinks the events of the collectivization. While his understanding of the true behaviour of Soviet rulers is still suppressed, Azevic's thoughts form painful questions. The discourse changes, by contrast, into a number of direct inquiries as soon as Azevic steps onto the road that leads him to personal redemption. The narrative transforms into a series of statements, or answers to the questions raised, as soon as the realization of the unjust fate of the Belarusan peasants fully occurs to Jahor Azevic: "One shouldn't do this to the people. Belarusans must have some right to be treated like humans. After all, what is their fault, what did they ever do wrong?"2? Reflecting on the fate of the Belarusan peasants, Azevic suddenly, in a stupefying revelation, finds hope for them only through faith in God.

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Sciuza is the first of Bykau's literary works (keeping in mind the original date of writing) in which, albeit cautiously, he employs religious imagery and even direct references to the Bible. Thus, Azevic, who is on his way back to the forest after leaving the shelter of that honest peasant woman, crosses himself: "And he openly crossed himself. Maybe for the first time since the war ... He himself was a little surprised, because he had never crossed himself since childhood - not as a youth, and of course not when he worked for the district. He felt that it was the right moment - at least it would do no harm. And might even help. Him, that woman, and everyone who was in trouble ... After all, what else could they count on."3° The rebirth of modern Belarusan literature in the nineteenth century was oriented toward the Belarusan peasants. Vincent Dunin-MarcinkevicV1 Francisak Bahusevic,32 and later, Janka Kupala,33 Jakub Kolas,34 and Maksim Bahdanovic wrote in Belarusan, or vernacular folk muzicki language, as it was called at the time. Despite all their differences, these writers had one thing in common: no matter which genre they worked in, each of them would often make use of the chronicle, at least as a partial method or device. Belarusan writers were not only writing on social themes but were also annalists who were deeply involved in writing the historical truth about the Belarusan people. This tradition in the Belarusan literature of the early 18305 continued in the twentieth century with the village prose of Maksim Harecki (1893-1939).35 Harecki is considered by many to be the forerunner of village prose writers in all Eastern Slavic literatures.36 In turn, Bykau fully continues this tradition of being the peasants' chronicler in modern Belarusan literature. When the time comes to evaluate Bykau's place in Slavic literatures, Sciuza, will undoubtedly be recognized as one of his best works, and not only because the subject is simple, human, and moving; all of his literary works may be described as such. Sciuza is not just another well-written short novel, but a thoroughly philosophical, historical, and retrospective document of the fate of the Belarusan peasants during and after collectivization.

Short Stories and Other Works of the Sixth Volume In respect to the dates and genres assembled in the collected works, the sixth volume is the least homogeneous. Sciuza is immediately followed by thirteen short stories, ten of which were written mainly between 1956-65; the last three were written and first published in 1993. The short stories are followed by the drama Aposni Sane (The last chance),

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first completed in 1967. This volume concludes with over 180 pages of journalistic works, written over the years but predominantly in the early 19905. Almost everything in the collection is dissident and shared the fate of Sciuza, with the author experiencing difficulty in publishing them. Some of these works saw print in different editions, and some were published first in Russian or Ukrainian, depending on the circumstances and the individual taste or even courage of editors. In a telephone conversation in zoo3, Vasil Bykau confirmed my assumptions of this volume's history, stating that he had had no control over the collection, since it had been published in the time of perestroika. The writer also said that he had recently received an offer from Belarus to publish an additional eight-volume collected works. Although official censorship had been lifted in Belarus, he and his closest friends, associates, and colleagues felt that, in reality, state censorship is even stronger than before. By late 1004, this particular publication had not taken place. All of the earlier stories in the collection, starting with "Ranak-svitanak" (Morning sunrise, 1966), and continuing through "Strata" (The loss, 1956); "Adna noc" (One night, 1959); "Na uschodze sonca" (At sunrise, 1961); "Estafeta" (The contest, 1959); "Nezahojnaja rana" (An everlasting wound, 1957); "Kruty berach raki" (The steep bank of a river, 1972); "Saldacki lios" (A soldier's destiny, 1966) - with the exception of "Na sciazyne zyccia" (On the path of life, 1958) and "Daroha dadomu" (On the way home, 1965) - are about the value of any life and the price that an individual has to pay for it during wartime. The last two, "Na sciazyne zyccia" and "Daroha dadomu," develop similar themes in a setting that takes place after the war, though the war still acts as a catalyst in both plots, where individual fate depends on circumstances that are the consequences of war. "Na sciazyne zyccia" is about Fruza, a cleaning lady at a government institution. This modest woman is soon to become a single mother. Everyone around her condemns Fruza for getting pregnant without a husband. The narrator, however, reflects on the fact that Fruza, who is neither ugly nor a beauty queen, would have had the chance of a normal family life if the war had not taken away so many of the country's men. Fruza is a timid woman of forty, and at the beginning of the story she is as lonely and destitute as one could be in her position. In fact, she is the personification of Gogol's poor little clerk, though reflecting a Soviet style. In tune with this style, however, her motherhood brings her well-deserved happiness and respect. Although the theme of single motherhood seemed a safe one in the post-war Soviet Union, and government policy claimed not to discriminate against single

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mothers, the reality was different. The stigma of "illegitimate children" was still alive among the people, and "poor folks" (Soviet citizens) continued to discriminate against those who were even poorer than they were. In summary, "Na sciazyne zyccia," though didactic, carries a healthy sentiment of compassion with single motherhood. The story is very well-written and imparts the aura of half a century ago. The theme of "poor folks" takes a different twist in Bykau's short story "Poor Folks," written thirty-six years later with a backdrop that reflects new historical circumstances. Dostoevsky's and Gogol's types of "poor folk" have become a tradition in many literatures: the idea of underprivileged but still worthy human beings on the one hand, and circumstantially dehumanized personalities on the other, has penetrated all socially aware Slavic literatures since the appearance of "The Overcoat." One of the interpretations of this tradition lies in the assumption that a single passion (whether material or ideological) that takes over all the essence of a human being will completely destroy that person's humanity. A personality captured by such a passion (selfless love is not a part of this notion) becomes dehumanized. These ideas seem to have disappeared in literature after the Bolshevik Revolution. Vasil Bykau was one of a few Slavic writers who continued to make the most of this notion; his insignificant Fruza, enriched by motherhood, gains balance, dignity, and hope in life. Of course, "Na sciazyne zyccia," as one of Bykau's earlier stories, is not yet Bykau at his best. Characteristically for a young author, this story (as well as other short stories from an earlier period collected in this volume) has its weak spots, and frequently shows a too-recognizable combination of pathos and didacticism. However, as Lazar' Lazarev suggests in his monograph, "There are artists who move forward by means of polemics from their own previous positions, disputing their own old notions. Bykau, while he was advancing on his literary path, did not have to do this; he expanded, enriched, perfected and deepened his ideas and esthetics. "37 And this is exactly what happened with the three short stories that conclude the representation of this genre in the sixth volume. Polymia (The flame) is the metaphorical title of a journal that has always been loyal to Bykau. It became even more supportive of Bykau and his literary and journalistic works when Siarhiej Zakonnikau38 was appointed editor-in-chief in 1986, the year of perestroika and the Chernobyl catastrophe. The three stories we are about to discuss first appeared in January 1994 in this journal. It is also interesting to note that after the publication of Bykau's stories the government cut off the journal's fund-

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ing, resulting in its smaller format. At that time, Polymia published almost ten thousand copies of each edition; by 1998, because of oppressive government policies, the distribution had sunk to a few hundred.39 In the cycle of the three stories, Bykau continues the line of open resistance to indecency and deprivation of humanity in a society that inevitably reduces a person to a mere type as "poor folk." This type, according to the Belarusan writer, includes those who, out of passion for things or social status, lose their humanity. We should also note that in Bykau's discourse, different forms of fear are commonly connected to a passion. He often raises the question of whether a human being can survive an immoral deed without a transformation into "poor folk," or into a mere stereotype. Bykau ponders this very question in the later short stories. A similar question was first raised in Gogol's "Overcoat" and Dostoevsky's "Poor Folks. "4° Dostoevsky's story questions whether Varen'ka, who has decided to marry Bykov (Bykau's namesake in Russian), is committing an immoral deed. Her act could be interpreted in two ways. The first interpretation is that she has decided to free Makar from the financial support that he rendered to her. After all, he is just a poor clerk who can hardly sustain himself. If this is so, she has chosen the role of sacrificial lamb and innocent victim of a dirty scheme perpetrated by Bykov. The villain desires this marriage as a means of personal spiritual salvation. The second possibility is less flattering for Varen'ka and more in tune with the apparent duality of both the character and the story's title. Varen'ka chooses this marriage because she wants to get out of the financial and social difficulties so typical of penniless women of her social status in the nineteenth century. If this is the case, then she might end up treating others who live in misery in exactly the way she was treated when she was poor. By treating others badly, Varen'ka would be degraded to a mere type, dehumanized through her passion to become rich. Since there are a number of indications of duality in her character, the reader of Dostoevsky's story must decide which of the two Varen'kas is likely to be true. There is no place for such bewilderment in Bykau's stories. This author is quite transparent in his depiction of his characters' moral nature. The first two stories, "Perad kancom" (Before the end) and "Bednyja liudzi" (Poor folks), are set right after the Bolshevik Revolution, and both seem to exemplify many of the unfortunate incidents consequential to this event. In "Perad kancom," the only protagonist who is clearly respected by the narrator has a proper name from the very beginning of the story. He is also given a military rank: Lieutenant Hluskevic. The lieutenant

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(the actual rank at that time was known as parucnik) is arrested by the Cheka (the political police) at the railway station. The functionaries of the secret police, attracted by Hluskevic's bearing and assuming his upper-class origins, take the lieutenant to a prison and throw him into a small, dark cell already overcrowded with prisoners. He is at first rudely greeted by his nearest neighbour, who by all indications is a criminal and a simpleton. Hluskevic listens to the others and little by little starts to understand the circumstances and situations of his cellmates. They are all very different in terms of social origins and outlook. The Criminal (he is nicknamed Blatniak, which means criminal in Belarusan) is not on good terms with any of the inmates, and the member of the Socialist Revolutionary Party, known as SR (Eser), is apparently involved in a quarrel with him. Eser is also characterized by a lisping voice and a mixture of respect and fear that he feels for the Bolsheviks. Eser is visibly jealous of the Bolsheviks' success and genuinely agrees with their policies. Hluskevic affectionately baptizes the third person who takes part in the conversation, the Elder. The lieutenant is quite familiar with people of this type, who were white-collar workers before the Revolution. A great many of these members of the intelligentsia had served as provincial doctors, teachers, or postal workers. The last person in the cell also gets a nickname from the newcomer: the Silent One (Maucun). He almost never participates in conversations, and as is the case with the Elder, Hluskevic at first does not notice him. When he finally becomes aware of his presence, the lieutenant does not trust him. In fact, at the beginning of the story, Hluskevic has more faith in the Criminal (Blatniak) than in Maucun. Hluskevic completely changes his attitude towards Maucun, however, when he finds out the reason for his arrest: the lieutenant discovers that this ordinary man has principles. Maucun was a watchman at an office, and when a group of Bolsheviks came to remove the tsar's portrait, he tried to prevent them; when the intruders became violent, he took up an ax. Maucun, an old soldier who vowed to be true to the tsar, saw the protection of the monarch's image as his duty. During the fight, he accidentally killed one of the offenders. Hluskevic's appearance in the cell stops the conversation between the cellmates for a while, but it is rapidly resumed after he settles in, and then continues almost without interruption: "The lieutenant paid attention to their cheerless conversation and understood that his inmates were troubled by the same worries about their individual fates as was he. After all, what could one do, it was a natural state of affairs; what else could trouble people in this Cheka burial vault? After all, they had as little hope of survival as he had."'*1

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This feeling of common destiny unites all the men in the cell and brings them together: a conspiracy is born out of circumstance. They decide to use the first opportunity to try to escape as a group. The plan is very simple: at the moment their guards enter the cell, they will disarm them and then try to flee. Hluskevic, who is reluctant to participate in this venture in the first place, agrees to join out of compassion and for the sake of the communal spirit. He is designated as chief executor of the plan, which is never realized. When a guard finally comes in, bringing them half a bucket of pearl barley porridge, first Blatniak and then Eser start to lap it up with their hands (spoons are not provided), eating like animals. The Elder joins them after a moment and hesitantly starts to eat too. Maucun and Hluskevic never join the party, despite their fellow inmates' invitation. After eating, Blatniak, Eser, and the Elder continue their conversation. Blatniak and Eser support each other in the hope that since they have been given food, the Bolsheviks have decided to spare them. The Elder interrupts these two and reproaches them for their betrayal. He says that one of them, Hluskevic, will be shot, unless they proceed with their plans. This starts an argument in which Blatniak, turning things around, says that he is not going to die just for the officer's sake. Eser agrees. Maucun unexpectedly joins in the conversation with a single word: "Animals!" When Blatniak addresses him for support, Hluskevic cannot believe his ears. These people who have involved him in a conspiracy in the first place - and to a certain extent against his will now deny him, and consequently themselves, the freedom to proceed with their mutually agreed plan to flee. First he does not answer, and when his behaviour angers Blatniak, Hluskevic surprises himself by retorting with force: "You are not just animals! You are also bastards - said the lieutenant with sudden determination, feeling that he was cutting off something in his life forever. He would have no chance to correct himself or to start again, and he decided to tell them all." Blatniak and Eser decide to denounce the officer, and Maucun, the murderer, is the only one ready to fight the traitors. He has been crippled during his interrogation, but he makes an incredible effort; he reaches for Blatniak and starts to strangle him. Hluskevic orders him to stop. Blatniak manages to attract the attention of the guards and when they come to the cell, he denounces Hluskevic and Maucun. On his way out of the cell, Hluskevic thinks about the people he has left behind, categorizing them as merely dehumanized types. The narrator's voice and the officer's are in tune in their description of the small reward for degraded behaviour - half a bucket of pearl barley porridge. The Elder continues to lament the event, and although Hluskevic hears his voice down the

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corridor, it leaves him indifferent. The Elder, in his experience, is also a type, a familiar member of the Belarusan intelligentsia who never fails to judge events or the people involved, but fails to act. Hluskevic faces death on his own, and the only consolation he has before the end is that this will be his last disappointment in people. Overall, characters depicted in the story feel more real than the stereotyped Bolsheviks: the Elder and Maucun even have personal histories, however episodic, though it does not save them from transfiguration into mere types, one for his inability to act and the other for becoming a murderer. At the same time, the story is openly didactic, with a strong moral message that describes the Bolsheviks as evil incarnate. A similar message appears in the next short story, "Na cornych liadach," which is also about the callousness of the Bolsheviks. The Bolsheviks in these two stories are portrayed as mere puppets, deprived of humanity through their loss of individual identity; while every other character in these stories has a proper name, or at least a nickname, not a single Bolshevik is granted one. Though "Na cornych liadach" deals primarily with these issues, the story also considers the question of statehood. The setting of the story is atypical for Bykau: he portrays a historical event that took place in Belarus in 1919, the Slucak rebellion, which was a Belarusan uprising against the Bolsheviks. It also continues Bykau's lifelong preoccupation with war literature. The story portrays the last days of a Belarusan detachment in which are assembled people of different social and political backgrounds; some are democrats and other monarchists. However, together they fail to gain adequate support from their own nation, Belarus. The story describes the last hours of a small group of survivors. These characters are united in their burning love for Belarus and its freedom. They also carry a common burden of pain, and an unanswered question: Why do their native people support the Bolsheviks, who are so immoral in their evil thirst for power, instead of them, the defenders of Belarus? Patriotic forces in Belarus continue to ask this question even today. The answer can be found in the familiar negative features of Belarusan identity: conservatism, appeasement, and mistrust. The drama of the rebels, however, is not a story of complete defeat. It has much in common with Bykau's general mode of optimistic tragedy in his artistic works. The rebels' irreparable situation also demonstrates their positive national features of courage and heroism. They decide to commit suicide and hide their own bodies. The group's early individual and collective experiences with the Bolsheviks have taught them that if they do otherwise, the latter will victimize their relatives. The third-person narrator

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starts the story with a hopeless sigh, stating that everything the rebels have fought for has come to an end. The narration continues in a severe and solemn style, as if preparation for a funeral is underway. It moves from the narrator to the interior monologue of each of the individuals in the detachment, and then tactfully goes back to the narrator, who comments on some details of the uprising. The narrator, a leader of the company, sums up their feelings and their hopeless situation in the interior monologue: It would be for the best if they would kill us all. But what if they capture someone who is wounded and unconscious and take him to the city for cross-examination? They will try to find out who this person is, his connections, where his family is, who his parents, wife, and children are. What then? Oh, no, the rebels had known for a long time that death is not the worst outcome compared to other possibilities that their fate might bring. The worst might be if their loved ones were tortured because of them. Those people for whose sake they had actually started their fight. No, even after they are killed they would not find safety from the Bolsheviks.42

As a result of these circumstances, when eight members of the Belarusan uprising are left without ammunition or any hope for dignity in life or death, they decide to commit suicide rather than be captured by their merciless enemies. The decision is unanimous, and does not depend on the diverse social status of members of the group, ranging from a regular officer in the tsar's army to a high school graduate to a landless peasant. None of them welcomes death; each individual fears its approach deeply. Bykau reaches his highest literary point in creating an internal monologue for every individual in the group on the eve of their death. The eight characters differ tremendously in psychological and social terms, each one speaking his own individual language, creating a richness and diversity among the various characters. Each of them is rather lonely, and does not share his forebodings or intimate thoughts with the others. Nevertheless, the idea of suicide as the only way out of this dreadful situation unites them all. There is a similarity between the act performed by the members of the rebel detachment and the Jews of the fortress settlement Masada, who committed mass suicide over two thousand years ago. There is, however, a serious difference between the defenders of Masada and the defenders of Belarus: the Jews of Masada were determined not to bury each other. They intended to impress the Romans by exhibiting their dead bodies as the sign of their defiance and, therefore, evoking reverence from

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the mighty Romans. The Romans, who respected the spirit of individuality, were able to understand such a message. The Belarusan rebels, however, were dealing with a very different sort of enemy. The Bolsheviks are shown in the story as dehumanized entities, unable to exercise any respect toward fellow human beings. Their type does not believe in the decency of the individual. Edmund Heier convincingly describes the literary device that Bykaii uses here: "The typing of characters is in fact a process of depriving an individual of his freedom, his uniqueness; indeed, it is a reduction of a human being to something less than an individuals Of the Bolsheviks in the story, not a single one is granted an interior monologue. Instead, they are shown as ridiculous and cartoon-like characters. While Bykau exercises a rather objective description of the rebels, he moves toward a subjective one in his depiction of the Bolsheviks. They are shown as types in whom the process of dehumanization is fully completed. One of them, for example, shoots an armless person in a rather indifferent, if not absurd, manner. The other, pejoratively nicknamed "Kamisarcyk" (the little commissar) because of his small stature, shows an extreme aggression together with a ridiculous inability to accomplish anything on his own. Thus, in order to assault a prisoner, he calls for his henchmen and with their help beats the prisoner mercilessly. The story's ending, however, carries some hope. Indeed, not all the rebels perish. They choose to leave one survivor, the fifteen-year-old Valodzka, as the guardian of their legacy. Valodzka is given the job of covering and hiding their burial place. The reader is left with the hope that the best that these rebels achieved in their decency and love for the motherland will survive in this individual and will grow together with him. The last story of the cycle, "Bednyja liudzi" (Poor folks), is based on factual material. I found this out only in February zooi, when I interviewed Vasil Bykau. In this excerpt from the interview, Bykau recounts his last years in Harodnia; he mentions his own troubles with the secret police and describes an episode concerning his friend Boris Klein: VB: Sometimes their people would break windows in my apartment or stop me in the street in Harodnia and beat me up, screaming threats ... The Belarusan leadership, however, could not incriminate me with their favourite accusation of not obeying the party. Here's another case ... Do you know Klein, Boris Klein? I think he's now working at a university near New York. He used to be a full professor at Harodnia University. ZG: I don't recognize the name. What area of studies was he in? VB: He was a historian. We were friends at the time. His story is rather

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common: first he was expelled from the party, then laid off from his job, and his degree, his PHD, was officially taken away from him. ZG: How could they seize a degree? VB: It's simple. The VAK (the Highest Accreditation Committee) had a meeting and came to this decision. They managed to imprison Klein, as well. I have a short story, "Bednyja liudzi," where I used Boris's story. ZG: I know this story. It was published in Polymia. VB: That's correct. The real story is very close, as I said, to what happened in Vilnia. You see, Boris's old professor and scholarly advisor was discharged from Vilnia University. Boris, on his way home to Harodnia from Leningrad (where he had taken part in scholarly meetings), decided to visit his advisor, to pay his respects and show some compassion. First the man was taken by my friend Boris's gesture; but as soon as he left, the old professor began thinking about it. Obviously his brain was traumatized by the experiences he had gone through recently at the university, and the best he could come up with was that the KGB had sent Boris to him as an informer. This poor person, damaged by circumstances, could think of nothing better to do than go to the KGB headquarters and write a full account of Boris's visit. Because of that, Boris became suspect to the KGB. Maybe I should explain here that at work he was doing everything he was expected to; he was a party member, and of course his lectures were never marked by any of the kind of discussions we had when we met privately. Well... on one occasion, while Boris and his wife were taking a vacation in the south, the KGB people broke into his apartment and found some samizdat. In addition, they installed their "special equipment" in his home. As soon as they had collected enough material on him, Boris was summoned to their headquarters and was "allowed" to listen to the tapes: regular conversations with his wife with whom he was open about his anti-Soviet views. ZG: And what did they do to him? VB: That evening our friend Karpiuk and myself were waiting for him in one of our meeting places in the park. He came and said simply: "That's it, lads, my career is gone, maybe my life will even be taken." For a year or so he was under surveillance. Of course, his university job was taken away, but he found something in a vegetable shop; he was a clerk and a porter there. After that he was lucky enough to emigrate. ZG: How old was he when he left Belarus? VB: Pretty close to retirement.

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This sad story of yet another broken former Belarusan citizen takes quite a different twist in Bykau's "Bednyja liudzi." The plot of this story is not complicated: it describes the psychological torment of a person who, in the end, becomes an informer. "Bednyja liudzi" starts quite innocently: Professor Skvarys, who teaches Marxist and Leninist theory to graduate students at the Belarusan University, is about to bid farewell to an unexpected visitor, his PHD student Krasnianski. The complication follows swiftly: the omniscient narrator describes in meticulous detail the swarm of feelings this visit has evoked. Two emotions are most pronounced in the host's mind. The first is gratitude to another human being who is trying to reach out and help in a difficult situation. The second is the fear that Krasnianski is an agent provocateur. Professor Skvarys, for no serious reason, is considered a dissident and is under a great deal of pressure from the authorities. He has participated in no special civil actions and is not known for his free and outspoken mind. Skvarys's fault lies in a single discussion that he had with two of his close friends after they had drunk a bottle of cognac and spent a mellow afternoon in a sauna. In that conversation he related to his long-time friends the content of a BBC program he had listened to the night before. In addition to the impressive data from the program, Skvarys adds a couple of his own ideas and condemns the war in Afghanistan. His friends did not take much part in the conversation; rather, they merely listened gloomily and chain-smoked. Now the professor cannot decide which of the two is an informer. In the end he thinks that both of his friends could have done it. Despite the apparent and doubtlessly deliberate coincidence of titles with Dostoevsky's Poor Folks, it has also been noted that Bykau's short story does not carry any kind of ambiguity. The reader of Dostoevsky's story must decide whether the protagonists are "poor" simply because of financial and social circumstances or because they are dehumanized through their fear of poverty. There is no doubt about the author's sentiments in Bykau's short story. The story's crisis, when Skvarys decides to report Krasnianski's visit to the KGB, brings the reader to only one conclusion. Bykau's protagonists are poor, first of all, because of a single passion: the fear of the regime under which they are forced to live, the regime that dehumanizes them and creates a characteristic type: the welleducated informer. In Forever Flowing, Vasily Grossman introduces four types of informers in Stalinist Russia.44 Grossman's short novel is written in a traditional, realistic manner. The chapter about the types of informers, however, differs from the others by its mode of narration. It uses a Gogolian mixture of styles and artistic devices: symbols, grotesqueries,

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irony, and mockery are mixed with tragic and sometimes melodramatic elements. Grossman calls the informers Judas, and numbers them Judas Number One, Judas Number Two, etc. Of the four, only Judas Number One becomes an informer because of direct pressure from the secret police. The other three choose this way of life by themselves. In the end, the narrator proposes that all four characters are nothing but "poor folks," merely victims of the fear imposed on them by the regime. Vasil Bykau does not change the mode of narration in "Poor folks." It is evenly realistic and describes the psychological changes and moral tortures Skvarys is going through. During the course of this transformation, Skvarys demonstrates some characteristics noted by Heier as typical in the process of dehumanization. The most prominent of them, as Heier suggests, is a person's animalistic behaviour. As in Gogol's The Dead Souls, where almost every protagonist reminds the reader of an animal, Skvarys, on his way to becoming a type, behaves like a bear. His situation is more tragic than that of Gogol's characters, however, because of the professor's doubts and fears, and above all, because he fully realizes the depth of his own moral fall. After comparing himself with an animal, the professor's train of thought goes straight to his graduate student, Krasnianski: "This visit of Krasnianski's bothered him immensely. Maybe he had to write. It could not be that this graduate student, with whom he had had no relations excluding plain work, felt his misfortune and melted with compassion to such a degree that he had come from afar with only one purpose: to comfort him. "45 First Skvarys cannot decide who this student is - a compassionate man or an agent provocateur. The denouement of the story is based on the professor's previous experience, which prompts him to believe that Krasnianski is the latter. This cowardly choice brings the professor to denounce his student. Skvarys informs the KGB authorities about Krasnianski's visit and his student's anti-Soviet mode of thinking. The transformation of an average human being into a type, an informer, indicates a number of similarities in Grossman's and Bykau's psychological conclusions. Skvarys denounces his student of his own will. Nothing and nobody threatens his physical safety at the moment, but Skvarys, like his predecessors from the Stalinist era (described by Grossman), is under much pressure from his accumulated fear: one last event could tip the balance for good. The student's visit is the last drop in the professor's ocean of fear; it becomes an unbearable burden and breaks his will. Grossman and Bykau are both empathetic toward the fear experienced by their protagonists. They feel sorry for these people, but at the

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same time, both writers pass a strong moral judgment on their protagonists. Thus, Grossman ends his exploration into the nature of informers with the following emotional phrase: "But how shamed and how pained we must remain, face to face with our human indecency, unworthiness, obscenity! "46 Bykaii ends his story with two similar and very compassionate phrases: "Poor, unfortunate graduate student Krasnianski. Poor, unfortunate professor Skvarys."47 With these phrases, Bykau gives the reader a recipe, long forgotten by Soviet and post-Soviet literature, that one finds first in Gogol's literary kitchen. This recipe consists of two ingredients: unconditional compassion and kindness toward a fellow human being. According to Bykau, compassion, given freely as a gift to another individual, is the only quality that is able to prevent human beings from becoming mere types, or from being dehumanized. Bykau's psychological mastery reached its height by the mid-1980s and continued through the 19905 into the twenty-first century. The psychological diversity of his protagonists is often manifested through the characters' internal monologues. As if telling the reader that his characters know themselves best, he lets them create a self-portrait. And each of them is free to use the artistic medium closest to his own soul, as the three stories of the cycle well illustrate. Aposni Sane (The last chance, 1967)

The stories are followed by Aposni Sane, Bykau's only play included in the collected works. Aposni §anc, written in 1967, encompasses two different literary modes that take place in different times. The first mode, the genre of fantasy, is used in the sections of the play that occur close to the time when the play was written. The second, where the realistic mode is used, describes events in World War Two. The play's structure is rather traditional: it has a prologue and an epilogue, both of which use fantasy as a genre and take place a quarter-century after the war. Aposni Sane has six scenes incorporated into one act. This act brings the spectator or reader to a small Belarusan township in 1942. The prologue and epilogue happen in an unknown territory; the building, however, is named the Palace of Justice, and its futuristic and gigantic architecture is described in detail. The voice of someone who is invisible, but presented by the other characters as the Supreme Judge, leads the performance. The voice calls out names and, one by one, Doctor Meyer (who served in Belarus in 1942. as the head of the local ss), Siamyon Budka, Sciapan Ksiandzou, and Mikola Zueu appear on the stage. Apparently, all three were Meyer's henchmen, and are called

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"accused" by the Supreme Judge. It is a mystery, however, where all of them have come from; all four look very different. One can also assume that there has been no contact among them for about a quarter of a century. Ksiandzou, a supernatural figure, confirms the fantastic part of the plot: he has been dead for twenty-five years. This unusual scene continues as the voice calls for those who were tortured and hanged by the accused. They come as a group: the former village headman Macej Budka, Siamyon's father; a peasant woman and mother of four, Darja Rascuk; the veterinarian Ivan Cieslenka; and his young daughter Julja. This group also includes a young teacher whom the police suspect of being sympathetic to the resistance; he was tortured and killed. The next set of eight characters appears only in the epilogue. These characters are united by a single element: their direct relation to individuals from the first or second group. There is Herda, Meyer's wife; both of Darja's surviving daughters (who are thirty and thirty-five years old at the time of the action); Macej's widow, who is Siamyon's mother; Zueu's partner and their daughter; Ciaslenka's widow, who is Julja's mother; and Julja's fiance. The prologue ends with the voice of the Supreme Judge, who sides with those executed by the accused and, in a supernatural mode, returns the characters to the past, twenty-five years previously, when Belarus was occupied. The action of all six scenes takes place either in a cell or in police headquarters. We first find the group of the executed in a cell; Zueii, who is later recruited by Meyer, is also among them. Meyer comes up with a plan to plant his own agent at the centre of the Belarusan resistance. In order to accomplish this, he wants to use the innocent Julj a, who is to carry a false code sewn into her clothes. Meyer's recruit Zueu, according to plan, has to expose her. His action is supposed to get the trust of the partisans. He, in turn, will be revealed by the real agent, Fz, who in turn is secured by both actions and is assigned to carry out the Gestapo's plans. Meyer is swollen with pride at his diabolic arrangements; however, through him, Bykau makes a very painful observation about the essence of informers, as well as the trials that took place in the Stalinist and post-Stalinist periods. Meyer states: "Everything that is genius in nature is simple. The Russians adore informing on spies and it would be sinful not to use it."48 Keeping in mind that the play was written in the late 19605, when this shameful social phenomenon was still fully in place, one is amazed that these lines were not crossed out by Belarusan censorship.

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The device of dehumanization, as with "Bednyja liudzi," is present in a dialogue between Meyer and Julja: JULJA: It disgusts me even to talk to you, but I will tell you. Your theories push humanity back to the era of barbarism, and your real goal is to destroy intelligent life on earth. However, it is impossible to destroy life. Your Hitler could not do it either. MEYER: In a split second we can end anybody's life. And yours too, you know. JULJA: No doubt. However, the more you destroy, the less human you will become yourself ... MEYER: And this is precisely our task. It called "Entmenschung" in German, which means overcoming bourgeois culture and its traditional morals. Germans need new human qualities. Do you understand? JULJA: Why should I understand people whose aim is to stop being human? You will be mutated into animals. MEYER: Don't worry, we will not. Instead we will educate a new type of man who will rule history without sentiment. JULJA: Lies! You will not educate anyone! While you massacre millions you will bring up only killers! And when everyone becomes a murderer, they will not be able to stop anymore. After they finish with the others, they will start to kill their own. Their own, the Aryans! And then this great happiness of spiders in a jar will come to you!49

Needless to say, this philosophical discourse could easily be applied to any form of dictatorship, including both Hitler's and Stalin's, and, of course, the later version, which the Belarusans now have at home: Lukasenka. The struggle between good and evil as two sides of the same phenomenon is ever present in Vasil Bykau's literary works. We also find this permanent theme in Aposni Sane. One may argue that this common literary theme has been implemented by other Soviet writers, but not many of them have experimented with the genre of fantasy. This is how Vasil Bykau differs immensely from the mainstream of Soviet writers who dutifully practised the official literary movement of the country, Socialist Realism. Even though, as noted by Lazar' Lazarev, Bykau has developed similar themes throughout his literary life, I should add to Lazarev's comment that the writer has employed different methods while posing his singular philosophical question: What is the highest truth? In Aposni Sane, for example, he uses the literary device of the dream, with its close relation to the fantastic, as the key mover of the action. This innovative device was

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not unusual for Bykaii, but was used rarely by others during the period the play was written.5° In the play's epilogue there is a suggestion that Meyer has dreamed everything. However, this impression is almost immediately refuted by the voices of the executed who curse Meyer and everything he represents. Let us briefly dwell on Bykau's use of dream and fantasy in the play. Meyer's dream can be considered within the framework of artistic devices used by many authors before the Soviets. Dostoevsky serves as a convenient example: he fully utilizes this device in the majority of his works, starting with Poor Folks, "Mistress of the House," and "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man," and continuing through most of his novels. Scholars have identified three types of dreams in Dostoevsky's works. The first type is called the "dream of artistic realism," characterized by clarity and verisimilitude in the eyes of the dreamer. The second type of dream portrays and identifies "a cosmic scope of the imagination," where the dreamer captures the entire universe in a moment of time. The third type of dream reveals a very special kind of "ability to achieve enlightenment in a sudden understanding of peoples' psychological behaviour." Vasil Bykau's overt implementation of the "dream of artistic realism" and the "cosmic scope of the imagination" is beyond dispute. We observe their classic use in this play, as well as in his other works examined in earlier chapters. The third type of dream, however - the "ability to achieve enlightenment" through sudden understanding of oneself Bykau treats differently than do most of his predecessors, including Dostoevsky. Bykau's didactic elements in the third type of dream are much stronger, and are aimed straight at his audience. However, the moral essence of these elements, though also portrayed through his protagonists, is not always revealed to them. Instead, Bykau wants the reader to realize the essence of his teaching and morality as it comes out of action. Meyer, for example, immediately transfers the blame that the accused have imposed on him, and the play ends with his words: "Oh, Hitler, Hitler I"* 1 This ending suggests a rather realistic and universal human quality: Meyer does not accept his personal guilt, and shifts it to Hitler, whom he served and admired twenty-five years earlier. The voices of the executed that we hear simultaneously with Meyer's immediately send us back to the mode of fantasy. Fantasy is often characterized in narration by the use of dreams as a poetic device. T. E. Apter sees the connection as follows: "The impact of fantasy rests upon the fact that the world presented seems to be unquestionably ours, yet at the same time, as in a dream, ordinary meanings are suspended. "52 Thus, dreams and fantasies supply the fantastic

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with a catalyst for the themes and functions of a plot. Dreams and fantasies serve the narrative by maintaining suspense: they create fears and expectations, and carry a message that could be explained only on the subconscious or supernatural level. According to Tzvetan Todorov, "the fantastic is based essentially on a hesitation of the reader - a reader who identifies with the chief characters - as to the nature of an uncanny event."53 This is exactly what we find in Aposni Sane. It is worth noting that Vasil Bykau's use of fantasy is similar to his use of dreams: the actual protagonists do not "hesitate" between reality and fantasy, since both represent the backdrop to their functions and inner world (the latter being fully revealed to the reader). Once again, this time overtly using fantasy and dreams, the author transfers the responsibility for recognizing his message to the reader. This message of the personal accountability of individuals for their actions is heard throughout the writer's literary career, and it became louder and clearer during Vasil Bykau's last thirty years. This tendency is observed in particular in his journalistic work, part of which ends the sixth volume. We will return to Bykau's journalism in the next chapter while examining Bykau's books of social prose: a fuller collection of his essays, articles, and public speeches. 54

Vasil Bykau, 1986. Photograph by V. Vasil'ev.

Iryna Bykau in Frankfurt, 2,001. Photograph by Z. Gimpelevich.

Bykau workplace in Frankfurt, 2001. Photograph by Z. Gimpelevich.

Bykaii with an autographed copy of M. Gorbachev's book sent to him by the Russian politician, 1987.

Bykau with Ryhor Baradulin at Victory Square, Miensk, 2.7 May 2003. Photograph by S. Scharpan.

Bykaii in his office, 1985.

Vasil Bykau's funeral in Miensk, 25 June 2003. Photograph by S. Scharpan.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

There Is No Prophet in Your Fatherland

Vasil Bykau's Crossroads and the Politics of Freedom A man is the history of his breaths and thoughts, acts, atoms and wounds, love, indifference and dislike; also of his race and nation, the soil that fed him and his forebears, the stones and sands of his familiar places, long-silenced battles and struggles of conscience, of the smiles of girls and the slow utterance of old women, of accidents and the gradual actions of inexorable law, of all this and something else too, a single flame which in every way obeys the laws that pertain to Fire itself, and yet is lit and put out from one moment to the next, and can never be relumed in the whole waste of time to come. Randolph Henry Ash, Ragnarok

Na kryzach (On the crosses, 1992); Kryzovy Sliach (The crossroads, 1999)

Though Randolph Henry Ash, a writer poles apart in cultural upbringing from Vasil Uladzimiravic Bykau, wrote these observations back in 1840, they typify characteristics of every thinker from any age and any place. Ash's sober classification of the spiritual and national growth of ideas is echoed in Bykau's work. Since we will now concentrate mainly on Bykau's thoughts concerning national language and culture, statehood, patriotism, nationalism, and cosmopolitanism, it is interesting to note such similarities in great minds from different ages and backgrounds. Who else in Belarusan culture in the second half of the twentieth century expressed so well "his race and nation, the soil that fed him and his forebears, the stones and sands of his familiar places" in his literary and journalistic work? Vasil Bykau's journalistic and literary activities have always been interconnected, and have, in fact, taken parallel journeys in his develop-

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ment as a writer and spokesman for his nation. There are two periods of intensification for each of these two activities. Bykau's professional writing started with his journalistic work, but became overshadowed by his interest in literature. His public and journalistic appearances were rare during the period when literature prevailed, and dealt mainly with literary questions. This period lasted nearly thirty years (1957-85), but even then Bykau never avoided an opportunity to speak his mind. His speech in June 1966 at the Fifth Congress of the Belarusan Union of Writers caused the leader and party boss of the republic, Petr Mironavic Maserau, to walk out.1 Evidently, Bykau's requests were the reason for Maserau's open demonstration of dissatisfaction. The writer publicly demanded that the party leader and his bureaucrats leave Belarusan literature alone and stop exercising their constant heavy control. This speech was published only in I99Z, in a small collection of the writer's speeches, journalistic works, and short interviews. The anthology was entitled Na kryzach (On the crosses), and it immediately became a bestseller: never before had Belarusans felt so fortunate to have such a distinguished national spokesman in their midst. The following comments and analyses are based on this collection.1 The incident with Maserau (who is still a subject of nostalgia for many who mourn the Soviet empire) is one of many examples of Bykau's standing up to Soviet authorities. His firm support of Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov, not to mention lesser-known names, confirms the writer's individuality and high moral standing. Despite these particulars, he was not often recognized as a fighter for civil rights until the time of perestroika. Bykau, we have noted, never belonged to the Communist Party, so the party could not reprimand him; also, he was very popular, and acknowledging him as dissident would be too embarrassing for the authorities. Thus, for many years Bykaii was a thorn in the side of the Soviet leadership. Throughout his writing career, Bykau never failed to raise the question of the Belarusan language and its treatment as a second-class language in its own territory. Until the mid-1980s, the audience to whom he directed this question was limited to two groups: his colleagues, the Belarusan writers, and the party leaders. Because of the peculiar literary status of the Belarusan language at the time - the language of the national elite - these were the only groups who listened. The authorities, however, themselves educated in the Soviet, i.e., Russian-dominated, culture did not encourage national development beyond the representation of some traditional folk culture and a number of pseudo-folkloric, pop-culture offshoots.

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Perestroika, however, seemed to promise a better and fuller linguistic audience than merely the Communist Party leadership, fellow writers, and a small group of nationally aware intelligentsia. Among other important matters, perestroika evoked new hope and the possibility of making Belarusan a truly national language. Armed with these hopes, Bykau entered into the most fruitful period of his social, political, journalistic, and public life. This period was at its apex from 1989 to 1992.. It slowed down with the election of a new Belarusan president, Alaksandar Lukasenka, and nearly came to an end in 1996 when the leader, by then a de facto dictator, prohibited Bykau any access to the Belarusan media. By this time, Lukasenka had "appointed" the writer his number one ideological enemy. The official leadership had labelled Bykau's national ideology to be "nationalism," but he continually proved them wrong by clearly formulating his national idea of Belarusanness. In July 1991 he gave a comprehensive statement of the matter: Patriotism, Nationalism, and Cosmopolitanism are very closely linked notions, which often follow one another. I consider a healthy and moderate nationalism to be a rather normal phenomenon. It seems to me that national feeling is given to a person at birth. On the basis of this feeling, national culture and many other things are created. The national idea is obviously the oldest and the most important of all the vital and life-organizing ideas that have survived up to our times. It feeds many modern democratic states. Another matter is the existence of extreme nationalism. And here I make the following distinction: a "normal" nationalist loves his/her nationality, motherland, and its culture. And an extremist in his/her nationalism is not so much immersed in love with all of the above as with hate for any kind of "otherness." In the case of our country, Cosmopolitanism, perhaps, belongs to the future. But again, there is no way toward "normal" Cosmopolitanism other than through "normal" Nationalism. And the foundation of Cosmopolitanism could exist only on the basis of different national cultures. We, the Belarusans, have a long way to go in that direction; before being able to enrich the culture of others, we have to develop our own.3

Bykau's works on Belarusan national identity are in accordance with an acceptable scholarly nation-forming process, where a national language is one of the prerogatives for national identifications In 1987, in the popular journal Druzhba narodov, he explains to Russian readers why Belarusans are still afraid to use their language.5 There the writer talks in detail about those who called Belarusan their native tongue, and of the repression that they endured. In fact, the repression of those who

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used the Belarusan language started as early as the middle of the 192:08 and continued until the middle of the 19505, with many individuals losing their freedom and even their lives for the "crime" of using the Belarusan language. However, one professional group - the teachers of Belarusan language and literature - suffered most, because from the authorities' point of view they were "ready-made" nationalists. The genocide of Belarusan teachers (in particular those who taught in Belarusan) left a deep scar on Belarusan national identity and culture. We have already noted how passionately Vasil Bykau has spoken about this shameful phenomenon in Belarusan history in his artistic works; his thorough examination of the teachers' tragic fate in his journalistic works is a natural reaction to the shameful past of Soviet Belarus. At the end of the article quoted above, Bykau poses a rhetorical question: What is language? In his own response the writer exemplifies his belief that a national language is much more than just a tool of communication: "When in old times a reaper was coming home alone from the field, she sang to herself. The only soul she needed to communicate with was her own. And what kind of language should be the one that expresses one's soul? Is a language the product of a soul, or is a soul the legacy of a native language? This is really food for thought."6 An emotional, hardly perceptible part of the language, its "lost soul," is what Bykau is trying to find and to bring back to his people. Although Vasil Bykaii does not consider himself a historical writer, his search for the roots of language goes deep into Belarusan history. Bykau finds his country's legacy in both the vernacular and literary aspects of the language, and balances it beautifully in modern Belarusan. His careful finding and preservation of the "soul" of the language is translated into a high standard of his own, generally without archaic or local expressions. This approach makes Bykau's language comprehensible to all. It also differs from many excellent writers (Karatkevic is a good example) who, while creating national or historic colour, often introduce highly romanticized archaic, or local, vocabulary. In his theorizing about carriers of the native language, Bykau is especially nostalgic about two social groups within the population: peasants and village teachers. Being realistic about Belarusan villagers, his hope lies in the education of new generations of Belarusan teachers. Bykau constantly expressed these hopes in both his literary works and in his journalistic writings. Bykau's social, political, and journalistic publications underline the destitution of Belarusan teachers while simultaneously stressing their importance in delivering the Belarusan language to the people, a major factor in the nation-forming process. Bykau was firmly against the use of

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any force in linguistic matters. His main goal was to educate the public in such a way that the nation will realize the need for its own democratic state, with the Belarusan language as a uniting force for all the people sharing its territory. This idea was formulated in a speech, which has elements of a program, to the First Congress of the Belarusan Popular Front in June 1989: Our movement for the reconstruction of society is national in form and democratic in content. It has a place for all the nations that form the Belarusan people. We do not isolate from it our old-time brothers in land and destiny - the Russian people who together with us, and also without any fault, have been suffering long enough. We do not single out the tragic Jewish nation with which, during the course of all our history, we have shared our modest land's products. Poles and Lithuanians are our historical brothers and we have numerous proofs of our mutual, truly brotherly existence within a framework of the same ecology, culture, and even statehood. If all this was possible at the sunrise of our history, why is it not workable now? Our people should create their statehood founded on a truly democratic basis - a republic for everyone that lives there and respects its history, language, and culture.7

The main goals outlined in this speech, including the ascendance of the Belarusan language as the common language for all who live in its territory, are still not realized. Bykau continued to believe in them, however, and worked tirelessly for the implementation of these goals. He never perceived this activity to be a dream or an attribute of the Golden Age but rather as the summative goal of his personal, public, and artistic life. Vasil Bykau always named hatred as the ever-powerful enemy of humanity on every level of human existence, as noted in his 1990 address to the Congress of Writers in Rome.8 Here Bykau discussed the introduction and development of hatred as the main ideological power on the state level. He pointed out that hatred had been introduced and established by the Bolsheviks as far back as Lenin's time, and continued to reign during the Stalinist and post-Stalinist periods. In his journalistic works and public appearances, this Belarusan spokesman explained how hatred adapted itself to the periods of perestroika and post-perestroika and became the primary cause of the present state of moral bankruptcy in Belarus. In his cosmology, there is only one way out of this impasse: to relearn individual kindness and tolerance. Vasil Bykau firmly believed that the power of moral values and humanism would survive inhuman deeds. His sense of justice in life and literature is impeccable, unrestricted by purely national interests. In the

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words of Thomas Bird: "Bykau has written with arresting philosophical depth about national traits and the relationship of political beliefs to a nation's history ... Critics have lauded the rich texture of his characterizations, his capacity to focus on telling detail, and the moral profundity of his canon."9 Indeed, Bykau was as passionate in defending the rights of a Belarusan writer to write in Russian as he was in fighting nationalists' attempts to discredit his beloved Chagall.10 Undeniably, the notion of Belarusanness and an awareness of unity with the other ethnicities that live in Belarus and around the world, are naturally blended in Bykau's world view. Thomas Bird underlines a sense of what Bykau strived for in his journalistic work: "His value system rests on a profound humanism, lying beyond national loyalties and ideological antagonisms."11 This same humanism is evident in Bykau's later collection of essays, public speeches, delivered papers, articles, interviews, and other forms of journalism, collected in a volume entitled Kryzovy sliach (The crossroads),12 the content of which is an expanded version of Na kryzach. The newer collection contains fifty titles,1? which I have translated in an endnote because each of the titles in the book operates as a mini-abstract. The crisp substance of all fifty pieces in Kryzovy sliach are not only reflected in the titles but also clearly promulgate the author's ideals and ideas. The Vasil Bykau of Kryzovy sliach is the mature spokesman and original thinker who not only raises a serious question in every one of his literary examples but also outlines an answer that is both in the people's best interest and in the finest traditions of humanity. These answers are simple, well balanced, and straightforward, and correspond directly to the questions raised: Yes, in order to achieve democracy, Belarus has to become an independent state; or: Yes, the Belarusan language should be introduced as the state language for many reasons, foremost because it will unite the multinational population of the country as the lawful lingua franca. At the same time, the reader will find that Bykau's answers are not always simply affirmative. There is always a fervent NO in his responses to fanaticism, racism, ultra-nationalism, and any other form of negativity. Here is the writer's position (taken from the February 2001 interview, but first presented in Kryzovy sliach) on Russian and Belarusan unification. Though this unification is still pondered by the Russian and Belarusan authorities, Bykau never changed his opinion about Russian imperial inclinations: ZG: For some time you were associated rather closely with the Russian democrats.

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VB: Not with all of them. The contemporary Russian democratic movement is not homogeneous, nor was it from its start. I think my views on this topic are fairly clearly expressed in many of my public appearances. Here is an excerpt from one such presentation: We celebrate and we respect the Great Russian nation, with its distinguished culture and heartbreaking history. We are very much for the Russia of Sacharau [Sakharov] and Kavaleu [Kovalev], the Russia of the noble democratic movement and its best representatives of the past and present. However, we are totally against the Russia of red-brown colours, the Russia that first of all mercilessly ruins the Russians themselves, that annihilates the heroic Chechen people and intends to take over other nations. The Belarusans are in that number. We cannot support the Russian imperialistic movement because, first of all, we are with the Russian democrats.J 4 This was my position back in 1996, and here I stand today. Is his book didactic in essence? The answer is yes, absolutely. Kryzovy sliach is solidly based on the writer's teachings. What is also true is that his didacticism is morally impeccable and powerful, and his word is both educational and convincing. Bykaii, however, never dictates to the reader; when reading his public journalism, we do not feel as if we are in the presence of an overpowering and strict teacher. On the contrary, he takes his readers by the hand and brings them to see the nature of things, as if to say: "Look, this is the world, and it has many possibilities. This is my understanding of its nature, but you are free to decide for yourself." From this perspective, let us examine an excerpt from the last piece in the collection, entitled "Slova i ulada" (The word and the authorities), which was the author's short speech before the Belarusan Chapter of PEN International in the fall of 1996. "The Word and the Authorities" begins with the following paragraph: "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God'15 - we know this biblical quotation, as well as the evangelical teaching that every authority (power) has come from God since the beginning of Christianity. For two thousand years, these concepts have evoked an incessant struggle; and humankind, also God's creation, like everything else on the earth, has been party to this struggle."16 The presentation as a whole is a thoughtful and reflective account of the history of free speech in the world, and its development in Belarus. Here Bykau, consciously and with great wit, can be seen to criticize S0ren Kierkegaard's concept that free thinkers do not need freedom in

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the world. He states the contrary: human beings need this freedom because it is their right to speak their minds openly, loudly, and clearly. When Bykau juxtaposes "The Word and the Authorities" in Belarus, he first of all reflects on the fact that his native land has never had a history of free speech in its almost two and a half centuries of existence. In the conclusion to his address, the writer raises three questions that he and his colleagues should discuss during their three-day meeting: "What does it mean - God's gift of speech? And what kind of relationships should there be between authorities and subordinates in terms of free speech? But the main thing: What is the role of the contemporary masters of speech in our post-Socialist space?"1? Bykau's strong polemic in Kryzovy sliach is focused on the question of national language. Here is another excerpt from my last interview with the writer, where I asked him once again about the matter of language. During this interview the letter carrier delivered a parcel that had come directly from Moscow. It contained a few copies of a new Russian anthology by Vasil Bykau, with three novels united under the title Ego batalion (His battalion).18 Bykau had translated all three from Belarusan. Once again I asked him a question that I have asked repeatedly over the years. I did this to reinforce the fact that he is first of all a Belarusan writer, a point that is still under discussion among some scholars and readers. ZG: Vasil Uladzimiravic, this anthology is in the Russian language, but you wrote these novels first in Belarusan. VB: I always write first in Belarusan, you know, and often I translate the works into Russian myself. ZG: Would you consider the Russian translation an identical copy of the original in Belarusan? VB: They are never completely identical. As languages, Russian and Belarusan are closely related; however, there is a mass of imperceptible nuances in each of them. It does not mean that either language is more or less superior or sophisticated in relation to the other, not at all. The hardship in translation lies in the difficult task of correlating suitable nuances of different languages into a word as close as possible to the original. ZG: Is it like working with synonyms? Synonyms are never identical. VB: Very much so; however, there is an additional complication with a series of synonyms in different languages. I should say that when I write in Belarusan, I do it with some kind of genetic ease. While I translate the same work of mine into Russian, each syllable, never

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mind each word, not only comes with hardship, but is a torture to me: I am never a hundred per cent sure that this is it. Even when a number of variants of a translation into Russian are there, and I've chosen the final copy, I am never completely convinced that the Russian copy is ready and final and corresponds well with contemporary literary Russian. I should remind the reader once again that from my point of view and Russian is my mother tongue - Bykau's Russian is beyond reproach. However, the above statement is not merely a sentiment but a reality for the writer, whose first language was Belarusan. After all, we all have only one native language; any other languages we may be lucky enough to acquire cannot be instinctive in the same way. In its latest rather revolutionary programming, Microsoft visualizes the future as a huge, traditional tree of life. This tree has many branches that at different heights produce buds, which in turn are responsible for the future growth and development of new programs. One highly placed branch is entitled "culture"; however, only one bud grows on this branch: "language." I think that this parallel is significant if we apply it to the writer's attitude to his national culture, language, and statehood. It may explain why Vasil Bykau and other representatives of Belarusan culture have been so passionately involved in matters concerning the national language, and are ready to protect it against all odds. Indeed, what is the base for any culture if not its language? Customs and ethnicity grow into traditions, but these and other aspects that create a culture are subordinate to the native language. Here is another excerpt from the interview (which itself extends to over one hundred pages) that strengthens this point: ZG: Vasil Uladzimiravic, for over a decade you were particularly active in politics. Now you are trying to avoid it. Could you please comment on this? VB: When there was hope for positive change in the motherland, I tried hard to help make this hope a reality. I took part in the leadership of the People's Front, I was writing a lot, and I took part in any meeting or demonstration that could bring these positive changes ... When I realized that our people somehow prefer the old ways of life, similar to the Soviet ways if not worse, I stopped my political activities. It became impossible to continue such activities. The Belarusan leadership cut off all my resources in terms of communication with

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the people: they practically made me an outlaw. Then I went abroad, intending to continue with my writing. Maybe this way I can be of use to our people. Time will tell. ZG: Vasil Uladzimiravic, most Russian readers consider you to be the pride of Russian post-war literature, and your Russian is absolutely impeccable. I know that in the past you would never have thought of writing your literary works in Russian, and that your working language has always been Belarusan. Would you ever reconsider your position and write in Russian? VB: I would never do such a thing. Of course, my Russian is adequate for writing. It has improved with my translation work. But why should I do this? Sell my soul, and what for? I would consider this switch to be a dreadful betrayal. ZG: You were always rather tolerant of other Belarusan writers who wrote in Russian. VB: And I continue to think this way: it is the right of all Belarusan writers to choose their language of expression: Russian, Hebrew, Tatar, or Belarusan. Personally I choose to exercise this right in my native Belarusan. A discussion of the writer's political and cultural involvement would not be complete without acknowledging one of Bykau's strongest human qualities: his complete lack of prejudice. Gordon Allport, in his book on prejudice, states: "Prejudice is: thinking ill of others without sufficient warrant." Allport continues with an even more impartial definition from a dictionary: "A feeling, favorable or unfavorable, toward a person or thing prior to, or not based on, actual experience."1? In Kenneth B. Clark's introduction to Allport's book, there is another notion that we might also apply to Vasil Bykau, whose lack of prejudice, rational mode of thinking, and philosophical ideas are always reflected in his artistic and journalistic writings: "It required years of labour and billions of dollars to gain the secret of the atom. It will take a still greater investment to gain the secrets of man's irrational nature."10 It is customary to connect irrationality with evil, its diabolic manifestation, or even madness, while rationality traditionally represents goodness, often manifesting itself as God and, when we apply it to humans, a clear mind. For some (and we will speak in detail about this in connection with the existentialists), good and evil are different sides of the same coin. For others, though they are both fathered by the Parent (God), good and evil are separate entities of equal but opposite powers.

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Vasil Bykau belongs to the group of thinkers who believe that good and evil are different entities. In the writer's social and public writings, his literary powers are directed against evil in any of its manifestations. However, as a realist, Bykaii always puts rationality in first place. And if "irrational nature" is hard to understand, the rational nature of humanity is pretty clear to anyone who can think straight. In these terms, Vasil Bykau should be seen as one of the most rational people of his generation, as is confirmed by his life and works. And, being rational, his work, with all the strength of his talent, continually appeals to the rationality of others. The reader should keep in mind, however, that Bykau's "rational" mode, as well as moral position, were always based on the lack of prejudice. Even a heretic of the Soviet past like Venedict Erofeev,21 the steady head who never accepted any authority, expressed his utmost respect for Bykau.

Existentialism in the Work of Vasil Bykau Erofeev once gave his measure of the writers in the Soviet Writers' Union by the amount of alcohol he would care to pour for each. For some, he would pour ten grams of vodka, for others, fifty. Erofeev claimed he would pour full glasses for only two of his contemporaries, both Belarusans: Ale§ Adamovic and Vasil Bykau. "For the latter," said Erofeev, "I would pour a glass past the rim." Venedict Erofeev (as told by A. Lukasuk)

Sciana (The wall)

For more than three years after the appearance of the sixth volume, the reading public in Belarus was able to read Vasil Bykau's works in Belarusan only rarely, and mostly in periodicals. The two volumes of journalistic and social works that we considered earlier in this chapter came out only after the collected works. Sciana (The wall) was the first anthology to appear as an artistic work in its original language and as an individual volume. 22 The collection was initially submitted for publication in early 1995. In T997-> however, the Belarusan State Committee on Printing,^ struck this anthology of Bykau's writings from its list of publications. Bykau found himself in good company. Together with his book, two more publications were dropped from this list: the

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leading twentieth-century Belarusan poet Larisa Genius's Collection of Poems, and Uladzimir Arlou's and Guennady Sachanovic's Ten Centuries of Belarusan History. That same year, however, both Bykau's and Genius's anthologies were printed in small editions by the publishing house Nasa Niva.2^ Bykau's Sciana (The wall) consists of seventeen pieces (including the author's two-and-a-half-page preface). It comprises one short novel, four novellas, and ten short stories, as well as an introductory essay. Most of the literary materials collected in Sciana had been printed in various journals in the early 19905, primarily in Polymia. Consequently, a number of them have already been the subjects of scholarly consideration. Bykau reworked only a few pieces for the anthology. The short novel Pakacbaj miane, saldacik (Give me some of your loving, soldier boy) is the third piece in Sciana, though the novel starts the anthology's literary works; the first two pieces are essays.25 From the interview in February zooi, I learned that the plot of Pakachaj miane, saldacik is rooted in a real event: ZG: Did you have a chance to fight for Belarus? VB: No, not Belarus: the army I belonged to was acting in Hungary. The most intense and hostile combats for me personally took place in Hungary. Our division was destroyed there. I was wounded once more; this time it was not as severe a wound as the first one. After I left the hospital, I was transferred to another detachment, with which I finished the war in Austria. It was 1945. Well, in Styria, Austria, we met the Americans. The township was called Rottenmann. The first night of that meeting was jolly and festive: to tell you the truth, both sides were happily drunk. The very next day we were separated by our authorities. There was a bridge over the river, and we were stationed on opposite sides of the river; none of us could reach the other. I wrote a short novel, Pakachaj miane, saldacik about that event. It is not exactly a biographical novel, but some events and the backdrop are from real life. ZG: What about Frania? Is she for real? VB: There was a girl who met a similar fate - but not exactly. First of all, we were not in love. And the real story was also different. There were a lot of girls like Frania all over Austria and Germany. Most of them were from labour camps. Some of them volunteered to go to Germany, but most went because they were forced to. We, on the other hand, were certain that all of them had been captured and sent as slave labour by the enemy, the Germans. Once, when we came to Austria, my friend and I were looking for a place to stay. So on the

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riverbank near the military cannon battery, there was a two-storey villa - pretty decent looking, typical for that part of Austria at the time. So we went there; we were thirsty and hungry and in need of shelter. We knew that the Austrians didn't have much for themselves in the last days of the war. I'll tell you later the real story about my last day at war. Anyway, everything was closed and we started to knock at the door. The door opened and a young girl standing at the threshold asked us in Russian: "What do you want?" We were flabbergasted. "And who are you?" we asked as soon as we were able to overcome our astonishment. "I live here," she answered firmly, "with the family of Dr. -" let's say "NN," I've forgotten the name "- and what are you doing here?" My friend and I couldn't hide our astonishment. She said that she was from Russia, from Lipetsk, and that she was working there. We insisted on coming in but she refused to let us past the door. We became a bit more forceful than I wish to remember. There was a real argument between us. Then she started to beg, saying that these people she was working for were really good, that they were old, a harmless and helpless couple. He was some kind of scholar, a world-renowned professor, and so on. To be brief, despite being just a domestic servant, she was trying to protect them from us as if they were her parents. We didn't know what to think at the time. Anyway, part of these impressions I used in the plot of Pakachaj miane, saldacik. Since Bykau's short novel Pakachaj miane, saldacik has not yet been translated, an outline of the plot would be useful to the reader.i6 Lieutenant Zmiatrok Barejka and the servant girl Frania, whose last name the reader never learns, meet in the last days of war and fall in love. They happen to be not only from the same country, Belarus, but also from the same area, and this naturally triggers their interest and trust in each other. Though the youngsters grew up not far from each other, their prewar and wartime experiences have been very different: he is a village boy and she is a city girl. Lieutenant Barejka is a typical Bykau protagonist, one we have met many times in his earlier military prose. He is also given the most powerful role in the novel: Barejka is the narrator. Zmiatrok Barejka was born in a village; his childhood was full of hardships (not unusual for a peasant's son) and then, during the war, he follows Bykau's own road: the front - military school - the front. Frania's father was the head of NKVD (the secret police) in Miensk and a close friend of Dziarzynski (Feliks Dzerzhinsky).2? Like many others in his occupation, her father was persecuted by his own organization in 1938.

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Frania's mother had to renounce him publicly, although she confided to her daughter that this action was forced upon her by political and social circumstances. When the war started, her mother, a Communist involved with the underground and the partisans, was caught and hanged by the Belarusan police and the Germans. Frania first goes into hiding, and then she is taken to a village, where she soon ends up with the partisans. Her description of a male-dominated partisan camp, and of their morals, is frightening. Unable to endure the perpetual advances of the detachment commander, she leaves. Frightened by the partisans' vengeance, which she barely escapes, Frania agrees to replace a friend who has been forcibly assigned to work in Germany. After being transported to Germany in a cattle wagon, Frania suddenly finds her fortune changed for the better. Instead of an almost inevitable death in one of Germany's underground chemical factories, an army officer chooses her as a servant girl for his parents. She lives with the decent, upper-middle-class family of an old professor, Dr Scharff, and his wife Sabina, who treat her well from the very beginning of her service. After they lose their only son and all their other relatives, Frania becomes more like a daughter to this elderly couple. To some extent Frania's story is as typical for females of the period as Barejka's is for males. She personifies the fate of many thousands of young Belarusan women who were taken from home to join the German workforce. In the beginning she seems to be luckier than many of her compatriots because of the good home she ends up in. This situation, however, does not last. Marauders from the Soviet army first rape her and then kill her together with her protectors, who are too old and helpless to oppose the invaders. This tragedy occurs when Frania and Barejka, who have proclaimed their love for each other, are parted: Barejka has received an urgent order to move his soldiers to a different location. The reader does not know who is responsible for Frania's murder. There are two possibilities: first, a rough sergeant major (whose manners are reminiscent of the counter-espionage service), with whom Barejka has had a heated argument because the sergeant wanted the house for his men; and second, the secret military police, who have been watching Barejka and Frania intently. Their reason for such keen surveillance is the Belarusan origin of both and the fact that Belarus is under occupation. From the beginning of his literary career, Bykaii never wrote a good word about the "political" workers at the front, a position that became even more vehement in his later works. Thus, in his essay "Vaina i peramoha" (War and victory), Bykau once again points out the distressing role played by the political commissars and secret police during the

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war:28 "The political commissars were particularly active in the periods between battles. At these times, unfamiliar majors and lieutenant colonels, cleanly shaven and wearing squeaky sword-belts, would turn up in the trenches and start warm and 'intimate' interactions with the soldiers. 'So, how are you? How is the food around here? Are you getting letters from home?' They were answered unwillingly and dryly. These 'friendly' officers were not respected among the soldiers. "2? Despite his age (he is exactly twenty-one, like Bykau at the end of the war), five years at the front have made Zmiatrok Barejka well aware of the special functions and methods of such institutions. His personal fear of and disgust for them, however, do not suppress his feeling of national identity. On the contrary, Barejka's national pride gives him the strength to overcome his natural fears. As with all of Bykau's other Belarusan characters, Zmiatrok draws his strength from memories of Belarusan nature: "Far away from the snowy tops of the mountains the sun had unexpectedly burst out somehow. It heated my face with a rapid and blinding flame. The sun came from the east. There was my motherland, which does not have mountains and majestic buildings. It has, however, a green spaciousness that is so dear to me. I will return there. And not alone. "3° These thoughts bring him courage and the hope that he can conquer the obstacles to his and Frania's happiness. Tragic circumstances end all these hopes, leaving him only one dignified choice: to give his love a proper church burial. As with many other Belarusan characters in Bykau's military stories, Barejka embodies complex psychological characteristics that illuminate the typical Belarusan national character. In one of the philosophical studies of this character, these features are divided into two groups, positive and negative.31 The first group includes tolerance, an exceptional ability for hard work, and love and respect for one's native land. The second, considered to be an outcome of Russian and Polish domination, shows uncertainty, distrust, conservatism, and national nihilism. In this respect, Pakachaj miane, saldacik, reaffirms a device typical of Bykau's military stories, where the location plays a primary role. As in the early battlefield stories, the events of Barejka's life take place outside of Belarus. Barejka, like Bykau's other characters who have found themselves beyond their native land, carries no negative national features. Instead, Bykau's Belarusan protagonists in the battle stories show the courageous aspects of their personalities. Heroism is not attributed to them as a natural quality but as a result of their psychological growth under extreme circumstances. Most of Bykau's Belarusan characters at war are not intellectuals, but their psychological portraits are drawn

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from their own thinking, either in the form of an interior monologue or in the narrator's voice. There is always an element of transformation in Bykau's Belarusan characters when they draw strength from their national identity. First, they all have this sense of national identity, or at least the romantic myth of it: Bykau's major protagonists always carry in their minds images of Belarusan forests and lakes, no matter where they are. Bykau's Belarusan characters whose stories take place in the Belarusan territories interpret this romantic notion of nationhood and motherland differently: it is engraved in them, and therefore national belonging for them is a static and obvious quality. Nature also plays an important role in their lives, however; it is often far from friendly, becoming a backdrop for everyday harsh living. Statehood is rarely a question or a motivation: Bykau's characters are fighting for freedom in general, and Belarusan freedom is an inherent part of this common goal. The prevailing issues in these works are moral values and the awareness of a national identity. The short novel Pakachaj miane, saldacik, however, particularly in its latest edition, carries not only a notion of the importance of the Belarusan state, but establishes and settles similarities between the Soviet and German totalitarian systems. Thus, Frania's landlord, the biology professor Dr Scharff, announces to Barejka the following as a postulate. Of course, the naive Soviet youngster is simultaneously shocked and puzzled by the professor's statement: "- The Russians have to understand that Nazism and Communism are two sides of the same stick. - These thoughts were new to me, and they seemed a bit strange. How could one compare Russia and Germany? Even under the influence of alcohol we would never think that way; such words would cause a lot of trouble. We wouldn't even dare to think that way ... After all, there was no use thinking like this - we were fighting Nazi Germany for the freedom of our country. 'Two sides of the same stick' had nothing to do with this, had it?"3 2 Apparently it had, and the fates of Frania, Barejka, and the Scharffs prove the truth of this notion. In terms of artistic mode, this short novel embodies many characteristics of existentialism. In the final years of the twentieth century, literary scholars in Russia, and even more so in Belarus - for example, Valiancina Lokun33 and Eva Leonova34 - noted Vasil Bykau's emerging interest in existentialism. Bykau had himself already revealed his attraction to the philosophical ideas of existentialism in his 1992 interview with Juras Zaloska,35 when he expressed high esteem for the writings of the French existentialists Jean-Paul Sartre36 and Albert Camus.37 Even in his earlier military stories and novels, Bykau applied the existentialists' ideas. Among these

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ideas, Bykau often utilized the existentialists' belief that chance rules our lives. No matter how unreal and erratic chance is, or seems to be, it is above all accessible, and constitutes the only possible reality one can count on in life. While in his last literary works Bykaii elaborated more on the world's madness and its absurdity (well-known premises of the existentialists), the writer also insisted on human beings' ability, and need, to create genuine values by and for themselves - ideas that were spawned by Sartre and Camus. Sometimes Bykau's own works carry titles that are similar to one another: for example, Vaucynaja zhraia (The pack of wolves) and Vaucynaja jama (The pit of wolves). Similarities can also be observed elsewhere: the open borrowing of a title from another author is not new in Bykau's literary works. For example, in the collection Sciana, we find a short story called "Bednyja liudzi"38 (Poor folks) - which, as previously noted, is familiar as the title of one of Dostoevsky's novellas.^ Besides the fact that the existentialists admired and were influenced by Dostoevsky, there is another connection with them in Bykau's Sciana (The wall): his direct borrowing from Jean-Paul Sartre's anthology The Wall and Other Stories (i949).4° Since the notion of simple imitation seems out of character for Bykaii, one must consider the only other option when assessing his objectives: the writer's intention to send an overt message to the readership. In the case of Sciana, the message is explicit and clear: the verity of the writer's affinity with Sartre's ideas. In fact, this likeness is also confirmed in my February 2001 interview with Vasil Bykaii. When I asked him if there were philosophical ideas he related to personally in his works, he answered: "I feel very close to the teachings of French existentialism. Camus, for example, in my view, reaches the heights of analytical mastery. I also appreciate the wisdom of S0ren Kierkegaard^1 the Danish thinker of the nineteenth century, as well as the Russian thinkers Berdiaev and IPin, despite their different approaches to major philosophical questions." In the same interview, Bykaii revealed that he is completely in agreement with Tvardovsky's statement that Camus's The Plague is "the encyclopedia of the twentieth century." The most common features of existentialist ideas, those that most obviously have attracted Bykau and inspired him to incorporate the philosophy in many of his works, including Sciana^ are as follows:^ i First of all, a passion for human existence, and the necessity of individual freedom as an initial premise for both the existence of reality and survival of the individual, the "I."

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2, There is no God. The universe is indifferent to humans. "Existence precedes essence," because people are creatures of both nature and social conditions. 3 A free being is limited by the outside world. However, though individuals are subject to accidents, and chance is frightening in such an absurd environment, the most important premise is that everyone must have a right to choose. 4 A person must have and does have a right to choose. Everyone is responsible for his or her choices because any choice creates a chain reaction that affects the collective fate of mankind. 5 An initial tragedy is the foundation of any free choice. Since everything is interconnected, a collective (the outside world) suppresses the • freedom of an individual to make choices. "A man is 'condemned' to be free and choice is his curse." 6 Any individual is valid only by what he or she has personally created. A good imagination is one of the major necessities without which an individual, or "I," cannot exist. 7 An antagonism between the individual "I" and the social, collective "we" is often presented in the form of a dictatorship of the collective. 8 The only responsibility an individual has is to his or her inner freedom, since the world outside the individual is the world of, and for, the collective. This world cannot bring freedom into being, and therefore is not able to create freedom of choice. Consequently, this outer world is an absurdity in relation to the free "I." 9 The outside world is irrational and meaningless, i.e., full of absurdity. It is impossible to be victorious over the absurd, though rebellion against it is the fuel of human existence. 10 The individual's fight against the absurd is essential for the survival of humankind. In these terms, the existentialists' aspirations are not so much for an abstract notion of freedom as against the obstacles that the absurd creates for humanity. 11 Pride, human stoicism, and the necessity of action against all odds for the survival of humanity are typical premises of the existentialists. 12. The collapse of hope, and consequently a lack of future for the individual, often underlies existentialist works. On the other hand, they advocate reason, social justice, freedom, and equality for all. 13 The use of parables, legends, and myths as both poetic devices and genres is often found in the existentialists' writings. Their most pronounced symbol in poetic writings is the myth of Sisyphus and its application to modern times.

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By presenting this summary of the major premises of existentialist philosophy, I make no attempt to encompass all the richness of their teachings. Keeping in mind that any artistic creation is preceded by the word, based on it, and lived through the word (and the existentialists are clearly adamant adherents of this particular premise), I have only attempted to make an argument for the cultural connection founded in their legacy. The continuation of artistic culture in the form of the written word is the strongest web, or canvas, if you will. And the needlework of each author, though by means of different material and subject matter, is still needlework; however, the artistic creation itself is a tight combination of canvas and needlework. Though there are apparent differences in upbringing and social, cultural, and educational backgrounds (Bykau was a generation younger than Sartre, for example), in way of life and consequently in mode of expression, the similarities in using the same canvas, i.e., similar humanitarian properties, stem from a common basis in existentialism. Thus, existence as the only eternal reality for humans is the centre of Bykaii's affinity with existentialism as it emerges in Sciana. In these terms, the eponymous short story "Sciana" is exemplary.43 Keeping in mind the fact that the short story gives the whole collection its title, we will begin the discussion of the collection with its namesake. First, let us compare the two stories with similar titles in Sartre's and Bykaii's anthologies. Sartre's "The Wall" initiates his collection, while Bykau's story "Sciana" concludes his. The setting of both stories is the same - a prison - but the plots differ significantly. Sartre's short story has three protagonists: one of them, the narrator Pablo Ibbieta, is sharing a cell with two inmates who, like him, are awaiting execution.44 For Ibbieta, one of the primal sins of an individual is lack of imagination, which is the only property that gives an individual the chance of free thought. Pablo Ibbieta has a vivid imagination, and because of it he is seen as a typical existentialist. Thus, Pablo is fighting the dictatorship of the absurd and practising his inner freedom in an attempt to choose his fate. As a result, his personal tragedy emerges: Ibbieta experiences the complete collapse of hope, and despite the temporary postponement of his execution, there is ultimately no future for him in the world of the absurd. However, despite all these disappointments, his passion for existence, his pride and inner freedom, are still with him. Bykau's story is a third-person narrative with one nameless protagonist, who is always addressed as "he." There is a sub-theme of dictatorship, familiar throughout Bykau's earlier literary and journalistic works. Since the middle of the 19805, however, this theme has been revisited

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with increasing force. In Sciana, for example, dictatorship, with its absurd but tragic consequences, is the main theme and philosophical premise that unites the whole collection. Bykau's "Sciana" also carries a metaphorical meaning. In Sartre's story, "the wall" mainly represents human limitations and ineffectuality, while in Bykau's it carries additional palpable metaphysical meanings: it simultaneously isolates and protects the protagonist from the outer world of the absurd. This notion is especially strong in the story with regard to the nameless freedom fighters (the protagonist's comrade-in-arms), and is evident in their struggle for their country's freedom (presumably Belarus) against both the tyranny of individual dictators and the collective dictatorship of the absurd. The theme of dictatorship, as well as the use of the phrase "the wall," are often used in the anthology, and in particular in the stories entitled "Ruzovy tuman" (A rosy fog), "Palitruk Kalamiec" (Political instructor Kalamiec), "Zouty piasocak" (Yellow sand), "Perad kancom" (Before the end), "Na cornych liadach" (On the black ice), and most prominently in the last two, "Voslik" (The donkey) and "Sciana" (The wall). In fact, the themes of suppression of individuality, authoritarianism, and the despotism of an endless line of dictators, visible as they are in every piece of Bykau's collection, establish the narrative and give, in the final story, its most forceful weight. The narrator first sees the dictatorship of the collective as a form of the absurd that constantly takes over the protagonist's imagination and reminiscences. As in Sartre's story, the individual fate of the character is shown through a number of flashbacks, and these flashbacks bind the events of the narrative. From the flashbacks and the ongoing reminiscences, the reader learns that the protagonist fights the dictatorship out of love for his people. His personal life is connected to his civil life: he had a lover who shared his views, and they were members of the same organization. His mistress, however, is the only individual from the outside world that he genuinely misses. This attachment and his thoughts about his lover make the protagonist wish to escape his prison. The wall of the prison is the first thing that attracts the detainee's attention when he enters his cell. Apparently this interest has accompanied the protagonist's many years in different captivities: "No matter where and for how long he was imprisoned before, he always took an interest in the different walls, in how and of what material they were made. And of particular interest was - what was happening on the other side, behind the wall. Certainly, there was freedom on the other side, fascinating, unattainable for him - freedom that he had never stopped dreaming

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about."45 Like the Count of Monte Cristo, he successfully tunnels through the wall that at times, metaphorically speaking, seems to become his inanimate friend, or ally. In a similar allegorical sense, the wall changes its meaning during the course of the narrative. At first, the protagonist sees the wall as a symbol of the continuation of despotism and dictatorship in his country: "The wall was made out of stone, it was covered with filth and was as old as the whole prison, which was inherited by the dictator of this country, who in turn received it from the previous dictator, as he got it from those who preceded him. Dictators had always been in the picture of this country. "46 The prisoner considers the wall his faithful companion if not his ally (he actually personifies his wall), but when he breaks through it, he finds only another wall. This second wall offers the prisoner the gallows instead of freedom. The wall turns out to be not his ally after all, but merely a temptation to make a bridge to the absurd. The protagonist's free, and apparently wrong, choice brings victory to the world of the absurd and demonstrates once again both the hopelessness and the necessity of fighting against chance. As in Sartre's story, Bykaii's protagonist takes chances, but because of bad luck, he becomes the plaything of circumstances that appear to be the driving force of a collective thinking that in turn willingly follows the orders of the dictatorship. All the unknown elements and coincidences in the discourse of both stories turn out to serve the order of the absurd. Thus, Pablo, in Sartre's story, becomes a traitor by a twist of fate: without knowing it, he sends henchmen of his country's dictatorship to find his comrade-in-arms and the leader of the anarchists, Ramon Gris.47 In fact, Pablo knows his leader's hiding place, but he "reveals" to the interrogators a different one: a cemetery to which he assumes Ramon would never go. But Ramon Gris goes there by chance and is captured. In Bykau's story, the gallows that awaits Bykau's protagonist while he works pointlessly to escape both closes the circle of this character's fate and also clearly emphasizes the theme of Sisyphean labour that is often elaborated by the existentialists. The story of Sisyphus, as interpreted by Albert Camus in his Myth of Sisyphus (1942; Eng. trans., 1955), is prominent in the writings of the existentialists. This theme explores human stoicism as a basis for their inner "I." The ancient Greek legend tells the story of Sisyphus, who was condemned daily to roll a heavy rock to the top of a mountain. At the end of the day, the rock would roll down, making all his labour meaningless. Sisyphus, however, continued his task the next day unto eternity. According to Camus, we are all to a greater or lesser degree the

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descendants of Sisyphus. Camus, however, gives a different and fresh interpretation to the legend in his Myth of Sisyphus. In Camus's version, Sisyphus is a highly spiritual individual who chooses to carry out his duty passionately, with fervour and dignity; it does not matter that to others, to the outer, absurd world dominated by the dictatorship of necessity, his task seems meaningless. To Sisyphus himself, this labour has the utmost meaning and sense. The main protagonist in Vasil Bykau's short story "Sciana" allegorically demonstrates the same nonconformist quality as does Sisyphus. In this respect there is a direct connection to Vasil Bykau's literary works since the early sixties: works that are always full of the inner freedom of his "I," as continually manifests itself in "optimistic tragedy" through his protagonists' destinies. The notion of "optimistic tragedy" develops in Bykau's works into a genre, and thus establishes itself in his artistic expression (see the critical biographies by Lazarev and Dedkov). One should note, however, that in "Sciana" this "optimistic tragedy" is not as pronounced as in the earlier works by Bykau. In fact, starting with the collection Sciana, the notion of "optimistic tragedy" has been extended, sometimes to the point of complete merging or absorption, into other themes, genres, and modes of narration in which the writer excels. One of these is the parable, which was very familiar to all of the existentialists. A new collection of parables has appeared recently under the title Pachadzane (The pilgrims).48

"Old Man Moves a Mountain" Though history, as is well known, does not teach anything, it also does not prohibit anyone from learning. Vasil Bykau, sciana

Pachadzane (The pilgrims)

The history of Pachadzane's publication reminds one of Sciana: only one thousand copies were published, and the book became an overnight popular success. There is another important similarity between Sciana and Pachadzane, however. The reader can also perceive in the latter anthology many characteristic features, and a palette of poetic devices, practised by existentialist writers. This new collection shows that Vasil Bykau continued to come into his own as the first Belarusan literary existentialist. On this note, a comment made by a Swedish newspaper on

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2,2, January 2,001, to the effect that Bykau is "the last professional Realistic writer in Europe," is fully arguable.49 For over forty years in his writing career, Bykau has proven that he has never had a change of heart in his search for the truth of human existence. His liberty-loving protagonists have experimented with different methods on their paths to freedom. The writer, for his part, has researched and tested various approaches by means of these protagonists, ranging from Rousseau's positivistic values to existentialist notions of the individualistic nature of liberty. Although Bykau tests his wholesome philosophical ideas on Belarusan soil, they are not mired in local experience. On the contrary, his national acuity explores both the uniqueness and the similarity of human fate and striving all over the world. I began writing this book about Vasil Bykau with four major objectives in mind: to describe and analyze Vasil Bykau's ethical values; to examine the core of his morality*0; to identify his literary methods by following their development; and, of course, to try to learn from his artistic legacy. In this respect, Bykau's use of the old genre of the parable is of particular interest. Though there is no doubt that the parable, being partially rooted in folk culture, has always been close to this peasant son, the Aesopian language in Bykau's latest anthology, Pachadzane (The pilgrims), is equally of a literary origin, if not more so.51 All of the characters in this collection, whether human or animal, use the language of Aesop. Aesopian expression is not a novelty in Belarusan literature. Arnold McMillin recently gave an extensive outline of Belarusan writers who worked in this genre during the 19208.52 Most of these writers, however, used poetry as their literary mode, while Bykau remained exclusively a prose writer throughout his literary career. Although we often associate the parable with Christian culture, this literary genre has flourished in many civilizations. While researching the subject, I read parables from many periods and cultures. One of these, a Chinese parable called "Old Man Moves a Mountain," written by Lie Zi during the Han Dynasty, is very close to our subject matter in sense, morals, and literary structure. The story is about an old man called Yugong (literally, "old fool"), whose home faces two mountains that block the way of the inhabitants, who must take a round trip whenever they go out. Yugong gathers his family and neighbours and suggests that they get rid of these mountains. All of them happily agree and start what seems to be a Sisyphean labour, breaking up rocks, mounding earth, and transporting debris to the sea. Another old man, Zhisou ("wise old man"), is appalled by this action. He reproaches Yugong for the fruit-

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lessness of his idea. Yugong answers him that though he will die, his sons and grandchildren will live. He says: "My sons and grandsons go on and on without end but the mountains will not grow in size. Then why worry about not being able to flatten them?" This parable, evincing the morality of elders who care about their offspring, can be seen in Bykau's Pachadzane. The parable reached European civilization through the Mediterranean world, notably as an integral part of the Old Testament: prophets preached them in the Hebraic milieu. Socrates and Aristotle are often associated with this genre as well. Greek and Roman philosophers, rhetoricians, and politicians utilized parables as a major communicative device. The parable is a short, simple story, involving a common occurrence from which a moral or religious lesson may be drawn. This definition is also useful in terms of its separation of "religious" and "moral" lessons. The rabbinic tradition of teaching through parable was practised by Jesus Christ, to brilliant effect. Because of this association, a general familiarity with religious parables as they are known in the New Testament prevails over what we might call the "classical" parable, which originated in classical literature and serves a secular public. "Religious" and "classical" parables, however, have inherently more similarities than differences in their intent and form. All parables are first and foremost didactic. They involve common sense and wisdom based on comparisons between an occurrence from everyday life and the aspiration of religious or moral imperatives. In fact, these imperatives may be combined with either religious or secular instructions or commands. The other most significant feature of a parable is the premise of an eternal struggle between good and evil. The treatment of primordial evil, however, is very different in religious and secular parables. Christians, for example, will not ask the "idle" question of the origin of evil in the world, accepting as an axiom the premise that evil is incompatible with good. Recognizing the duality in the concept of good / evil, religious adherents find joy in conquering evil in both its inner and outer forms of existence. However, those outside the Christian faith will often question both the origin of evil and its eventual subordination to good. By the end of the late nineteenth century, religious parables were put into three categories. The first is the similitude, i.e., the most concise type of parable, which is considered to be equal in length to a short-short story. The similitude tells a story that everyone can relate to because of a familiar experience. The second is called an actual parable, and in terms of length it is usually compared to the literary short story. Its plot is typically built around one single event that is fictitious but can be perceived as

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true. The third type is called an exemplary story, which differs from the first two by the author's intent to exemplify an event and single it out, whereas the first two literary forms are built on analogy. Vasil Bykau finds a use for all three categories in his collected volume of parables, Pachadzane. While rather few religious connotations can be found in Bykau's Pachadzane, his parables' moral and didactic values prevail overwhelmingly. While one can easily deduce the presence of good and evil in his parables, as well as the charisma of prophecy, the collection primarily carries a civil message of warning to the people. There are different interpretations of Vasil Bykau's intentions in his use of parables. Some critics claim that Bykau's parables solidify his affiliation with the existentialists. Others, like Siarhej Dubavec, for example, in his foreword to Pachadzane, called Bykau's parables "fairy tales for adults": "[His] parables are this kind of 'fairy tale for adults,' where rather often schemes and outlines of the worst possible happenings that a careless individual and an injudicious or unwise nation might expect are given, based on the foundation of the Belarusan mentality. Bykau's parables are like talismans. And they are created in a much more accessible form than Bykau's earlier classic literary works. "53 Although I find Dubavec's critique relevant to the subject in general, I am reluctant to call Bykau's parables mere "fairy tales for adults." Fairy-tale morals and ethics are usually much more subtle than they are in parables and fables. 54 And Bykau's morals hammer the reader from the beginning to the end of his parables. Allegory (also often used in fables) is one of the major literary devices that unites the collection. There are twenty parables in the anthology; approximately half of them can be categorized as fables simply because the protagonists are animals. The major themes and morals are in tune with existential thought, and are always based on a struggle between evil and good, without any serious supposition about or indication of their religious duality. The other common feature is the domination of evil in this struggle, which is also in opposition to (Christian) religious parables, and lends an intensely pessimistic quality to Bykau's parables. Most of Bykau's parables in the latest collection bear exotic or foreign elements: they take place in some faraway land, often on islands, and protagonists rarely have familiar Slavic names. The landscape, correspondingly, is also exotic. Details of everyday life, however, are so overtly identifiable that they can be recognized by anyone who has ever heard of the former socialist countries. The endings of most of the stories often unmistakably bring the reader to a very particular part of the world: Belarus.

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We will consider each of the twenty pieces of short prose collected in Pachadzane in order of its appearance in the anthology. The first story is called "Vucinaja staja" (The flock of ducks). An old flock leader is preparing his group to fly south. On the eve of the flight his flock, which has not had much food over the summer, finds its way to the waste of a small industrial plant that is throwing its rubbish into their water. Very soon the ducks refuse to follow their leader, since they find the waste more attractive and safer than an unknown trip, and he predicts their demise when he cannot find a way to convince them to leave the waters. The moral of this parable is clear: even a wise leader cannot ensure his flock's survival if he is unable to explain his vision and convince his followers. The second piece, "Koska i myska" (Cat and mouse), is very short less than three pages - and is a typical similitude in literary form. It is the story of a young mouse naive enough to believe in "good" cats. The fable clearly portrays the Belarusan intelligentsia (the mouse) that believed in the possibility of justice, of luck, or at least of personal survival, when they found themselves caught by a totalitarian system (the cat). Of course, the "good" cat eats the naive mouse as soon as he is bored by playing with her. The moral of this story is also obvious: a cat is the born merciless enemy of a mouse, and as soon as a mouse is in the cat's claws, there is no way out for the victim. "Pahibiel zajca" (The death of a hare) is the third story in the collection. Thematically, this fable has a direct connection with the first one: it exposes weak leadership. Unexpectedly, a hare is chosen as the leader in a forest. Since he has no experience, no plan of action, no management skills, and no real power, nobody listens to him. After a short period of anarchy, a pack of wolves takes over and hangs him publicly. This allegory is simple: most obviously the hare portrays a head of the intelligentsia (possibly the People's Front), while Lukasenka's regime is presented as a pack of wolves. The moral is also obvious: a weak leadership, without a plan of action, will always be overthrown by a stronger opponent, no matter how evil the latter is. "Chvastaty" (The long tail) is the longest fable of the first four, and has the classic structure of a short story: it concentrates on a single character and has a startling ending. This is the only story that Bykau himself calls, as the subtitle makes clear, "A fairy tale for adults." Chvastaty is a rat trained by a man called Vysaty" ("the one with the moustache") to become his henchman. Vysaty has made the right choice: his protege Chvastaty kills all the rats in the barn. The subtlety of the parable is in the process of Chvastaty's change. First he kills for his own

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survival, but little by little the rat starts to enjoy killing. By the end of the story, Chvastaty cannot live without murder. The moral of this sad story is overt: a tyrant will always find a murderer among his subordinates; therefore any collaborator in thrall to a dictator will eventually become a mortal enemy even to his own kin. The fifth parable, "Chutarane" (The farmstead's inhabitants), starts a seven-story cycle with no animal protagonists. It has, however, a fantastic element: a devil, who conies in the image of an agitator, propagating collectivization and integration to a family of farmers. The eldest son, however, finds a talisman against this devil: a national banner. The moral expresses Bykau's striving for Belarusan independence. The same moral is communicated in the story with the self-explanatory title "Ab'iadnannie" (Unification). The action of this parable takes place in an old castle that serves as a prison. Its prisoners are doomed to be liquidated. This short story unravels a sinister blend of inhumanity, which consists of all the imaginable elements of dictatorship. Among them are betrayal and collaboration, the emptiness and laziness of the masses, and of course the callousness and brutality of the leadership. The moral of the story is close to the second parable, "Koska i myska": a prisoner and his keeper are mortal enemies and their interests cannot be reconciled under any circumstances. "Abiazbozany liud" (Godless people) tackles the history of Orthodoxy before the Soviets, East Slavic in general and Belarusan in particular, and the perverted use of religion by the dictatorship. As the result of a nation's passivity, God leaves their lands, and simple people go back to their old habit, alcoholism, and worship their old idol, a bottle. The moral of "Abiazbozany liud" is in tune with the preceding and following parables: in order to preserve personal humanity, one must learn to think for oneself. "Try slovy niamych" (Three words of a deaf mute) is profoundly allegorical, a bitter parody of what has happened to the Belarusan language under the Soviets, and in particular under the Lukasenka regime. The parable, however, places this nation on an island that was moderately prosperous before other people colonized it. The island people apparently used to have a language, but abandoned it due to day-to-day hardships long before the colonizers, who are articulate in their own language, came to their island. The story starts with the words "The nation was dumb." One of the colonizers' means of exploitation is their language, and the colonized nation has no means of opposition. After a weak attempt to revive their ancestors' language, the nation falls mute forever. The moral of this story is an allegorical warning directed to the

199 No Prophet in Your Fatherland

Belarusan nation: independence, prosperity, and self-respect cannot exist without a native language. The next parable, "Sonca u vakoncy?" (Sunshine through a window?), is one of a very few to portray a ray of a hope. Nevertheless, this hope, metaphorically expressed in the title, is conditional upon the people's realization of the differences between virtual and actual realities. This story is also a warning for those demagogues who are ready to replace human values by simply renaming them. Thus, a country is instructed by its leadership as follows: "to rename evil as good, lie as truth, failure as victory, socialism as happiness. Poverty was to be considered as wealth, "s6 In the course of these changes, the language of "big brother" replaces the native language, creating a virtual reality that, for a while, gives hope of sunshine in the window of the nation, which loses its strength in the struggle with actual reality. The narrator's hope lies in the wish that someday his people might act in the light of actual reality. The tenth parable is called "Novaja cyvilizacyja" (New civilization). It is a parody of a new tax system introduced in the countries of the Union of Independent States (SNG). In one particular country, the state is bankrupt. First the leadership plays with the tax system and demands more taxes from all; however, the more taxes they require, the less the state treasury receives. Then the government comes up with another plan: they cut pensions. This does not help either, since the people of this country are used to living on next to nothing, and so can easily do without a minuscule government pension. The next step is to pay wages and pensions with cheap vodka. This does the trick: the pensioners breathe their last, and there are no more of them by the twenty-first century. The next dictator renames the country the Republic of the Bottle, and everyone calls it by its initials, RB (Republic of Belarus). The moral of this parable is as clear as the others: dictatorship is always self-serving and never cares about its people. Unless that particular nation (Belarus) is united against tyranny it will be drowned in an ocean of alcoholism and decadence. "Pachadzane" (Pilgrims) the eponymous parable, begins the cycle of the next ten parables. The main theme is dictatorship, and the moral the national disaster that is the outcome of blindly following any dictatorship - is the major teaching in this parable as well as throughout the anthology. The plot is also straightforward: a tribe leaves its unhappy and fruitless lands and follows its leader in search of a better place to live. The problem is that the leader himself does not know where he is leading them. The leadership then constantly changes, and the leaders drag their tribe back and forth for ages. The tribe gets weaker and weaker, while the dictatorship becomes stronger and makes even less sense with

200 Vasil Bykau

every new dictator. The moral of this parable is self-explanatory: the author once again warns the people against a dictatorship that is rooted in so-called collective thinking. The twelfth parable, "Nasarohi iduc" (Rhinoceroses are coming) is about independence, and its plot seems to overtly suggest how it might be possible to acquire the desired sovereignty. The moral offers a solution in the struggle against colonizers. In this story, rhinoceroses that require more and more taxes and different kinds of offerings from a tribe, oppress them. The leadership of the tribe tries a policy of appeasement that worsens its situation drastically over the ages. It is only when the tribe gathers their force against the oppressors and start to fight the rhinoceroses that they have a chance to obtain their freedom. "Vieza" (The tower) is the thirteenth parable of the collection; everyone will recognize the country involved as Belarus under dictatorship. A dictator who bears Stalin's (as well as Lukasenka's) familiar nickname, "Dauhavusy" (the one with the long moustache), rules his people with tyrannical ardour, and makes them construct a gigantic tower to reach the cosmos. This Tower of Babel (an allegory of socialism) finally collapses, and despite the efforts of many followers of the dictator, the people finally refuse to reconstruct the tower. They do not clear up the enormous amount of debris after the tower's collapse, and therefore they have to live in the chaotic aftermath of their own incompetence, stupidity, and bad habits. "Bajki zyccia" (Fables of life) is a triptych consisting of three short stories, "Fear," "Laughter," and "Terror." The triptych is the longest parable in the collection. It is a historical allegory in which the narrator analyzes the history of the former Soviet republics before and after the Bolsheviks. Fear is kept in a small ceramic pot, and all the people of that country serve it slavishly. Of course, the leader of the country receives all the fruits of his people's service. One day a simple but fearless person called Miron throws the ceramic pot from the heights of the castle, and fear rules the country no more. A few days after fear is overthrown, laughter becomes tsar. Of course, Miron and many others who cannot laugh in tune with the new rulers are persecuted: this stage of history exemplifies the saying "laughter through tears." Another problem quickly arises during the reign of laughter: difficulties with finding sufficient food and dwellings for the people. People seek and find the answers for everything in an ocean of cheap alcohol. The terror that comes to power in turn is chosen democratically; it completely ruins the country and then disappears, together with any familiar way of life. It leaves behind, however,

201 No Prophet in Your Fatherland

a dark and dirty pool of heavy water with some diabolic entity swimming around in it. The moral of this parable is stated in the final short paragraph: "People said that all of this is a lesson to mankind regarding disrespect toward God and the laws of human nature. "5? "Halouny Kryhsmen" (The military chief) is a parody of a junta-style dictatorship in which a tyrant is at war with all of his neighbours. He uses war as an excuse for all the economic and political deprivations his country suffers. The ruler's country is rarely successful in battle, but since he always appoints somebody else as the army's military chief, the people never blame the ruler for their losses. The ruler appoints a librarian as his military chief and he, despite his inherent pacifism, is forced to agree with his leader. This feeble old intellectual, against all odds, wins a military battle against a neighbouring state. The ruler immediately proclaims himself a hero and kills his successful military chief, under the pretext that the country does not need too many heroes. The people cheer their dictator. The moral bitterly echoes Bismarck's saying that every nation deserves its rulers. "Malerikaja cyrvonaja kvetacka" (The little red flower) is a shortshort story that is not as easy to decode as most of Bykau's other parables. The allegorical plot could refer to a wide range of historical events in Belarus, from Kastus Kalinouskij's rebellion to the Slucak uprising. The story is as follows: for a long time the people love their leader, who brought them to independence. This mutual love continues until their enemies win the war and take over the country. As soon as this dreadful event takes place, during which the leader is killed, the people's love for their leader is replaced by hate. Only many years later does someone plant a little red flower to mark the leader's grave. The moral is twofold: the majority will always follow a victorious leadership, while only a minority is able to cherish freedom and think for themselves. "Na pouniu" (At the time of the full moon) is one of the shortest stories of the collection. The plot is a parody of a justice system under a dictatorship where the collective is represented by three elderly judges. At each full moon these high priests of justice conduct a public execution. During the execution, the executioner not only implements the punishment but is also entitled to the victim's gratitude. Everyone who is punished should not only kiss the executioner's hand before dying but also thank the judges for their wise judgment. One girl, Ulrika, does not express gratitude, but rather complains bitterly. The judges decide to impose another punishment on this "ungrateful" girl, and burn her during the next execution. Since Ulrika does not utter a sound during her execution, and therefore shows no sign of repentance, both the specta-

202 Vasil Bykau

tors and judges are in complete accord that the girl has received a well-deserved punishment. The literary motifs in the Chinese parable "Old Man Moves a Mountain" and Camus's interpretation of the Greek myth of Sisyphus are also used in Bykau's "Kameri" (The stone). The first two parables, however, carry positive connotations, while Bykaii, in the moral of his parable, raises a warning to people who lack the skills to perform a proper job. His characters are gathered in an old eatery / bar, and under the leadership of the barman (who is also the bar's owner) they decide to move a huge stone that is in everybody's way. Collectively they move the stone up the hill, but at the last moment they lose control of the stone and create an avalanche that in turn destroys the village. The last two parables, "Muzyka" (The musician) and "Voslik" (The little donkey), were first published in Sciana. Both stories are extremely pessimistic and their morals are once again related to Sisyphus and his labour, this time, however, in a very different manner from Camus's interpretation of the myth of Sisyphus. Once more, Bykau's perception and interpretation of Sisyphus's labour is closer to the Greek legend, where Sisyphus's hard work is fruitless. "Muzyka" dwells upon the meaningless life of a musician who is half Belarusan (through his father). Though we know that the musician was born somewhere in an exotic southern country, his father's stories about Belarusan nature, the people, and even special Belarusan apples called "Anton" survive in his memory. The reader guesses that the musician is unwell; part of his story takes the form of a dream, and the other part is drawn as a fantastic nightmare. In this nightmare the protagonist travels through time and space. He is even present during an unusual cosmic ceremony: the funeral of a nation. Since his deceased father's shadow is also present at the funeral, one might suppose that this nation is Belarus. The ending of the story is sinister and full of riddles. It is understood that the musician, whose life has turned out to be useless, is dead by the end. What is not clear is whether the entire world has come to an end, or only the world of this musician and the nation he never knew but somehow cared about. The moral of this parable, however, is obvious: one cannot lead a useful and complete life while separated from one's own people. The parable "Voslik" illuminates the existential theme of an inherent antagonism between the individual "I" and the social, collective "we," frequently, in Bykau's work, presented in the form of a dictatorship of the collective. The protagonist of the story, framed once more in an exotic setting, is fighting a dictatorship reminiscent in every detail of the Lukasenka regime. The nameless protagonist fights out of love for his

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own people, and his senseless demise is caused accidentally by the indifference and stupidity of his beloved countrymen. The moral of this story is as merciless as that of the majority of these parables: there is no hope for the nation that does not strive for freedom. In examining Vasil Bykau's parables, we notice their similarities: the major themes of leadership, dictatorship, statehood, native language, independence, and the value of the individual "I" and its relation to the collective "we" unite these stories. The theme of Sisyphean labour, so prevalent in the collection, is sometimes presented in the style of the ancient Greek versions, and sometimes corresponds to Camus's interpretation. In the case of the former, Bykau leaves very little hope for humanity; in the latter, hope survives. Though these cultural similarities with the existentialists are obviously based on the writer's firm democratic sensibilities, Bykau didactically hammers home these convictions to his readers in the hope that they will start to see the world and the situation in Belarus with his eyes. And if this hope is to be realized, the reader's awareness must prevent the occurrence of further evil and anti-democratic actions. At the same time, from an artistic perspective, each parable is unique, masterfully written, poignant, and self-contained. The late Ales Adamovic, Vasil Bykau's most cherished friend and critic, noted as far back as 1974 the writer's affinity for the genre of the parable. 5 8 At that time, the critic gave a new definition to the genre, and in relation to Bykau, Adamovic called it pritcheobraznost' (parable-like genre): "This parable-like genre contains the danger of excessiveness of its main idea, the impoverishment of existing connections, and the suppression of reality for the sake of an idea and a moral. A parable easily accepts the lack of what Leo Tolstoy considered to be 'an asymmetry,' an element of extraordinary importance in art. "59 Adamovic also admits that Bykau's earlier "parable-like" works are characterized by this lack of symmetry. However, the critic does not consider this to be a drawback in the writer's work. On the contrary, argues Adamovic, Bykau involves the modern variant of a parable by bringing in realistic contemporary details with all the complexity and richness of modern "dialectics of the soul."60 Such an idea, continues the critic, often takes over the plot, when the writer put his protagonist in a stressful situation and involves the question of choice. In other words, this critique connected the writer with the world of the existentialists long before others noted it. Though Lazarev and Dedkov, the former in particular, carefully considered Ales Adamovic's critique, they both rejected it at the end.61 The premise of their rejection is rather similar: they put forward the notion

204 Vasil Bykau

that Vasil Bykau is much bigger than one particular genre, and therefore it is senseless to fence him in. I don't intend to argue this last point, because I believe it to be true. Nevertheless, Adamovic's analyses and suppositions outline a connection of genre and movement that has prevailed in Vasil Bykaii's literary interests. Bykau's collection Pachadzane, as well as collections of parables yet to be published and other literary works in different forms and genres, all provide evidence that Bykaii never confined himself to a single genre. The writer himself proved one point throughout all the periods of his creative writing: Bykau never abandoned a genre before he excelled in it. As soon as he did so, he searched for a new means of expression elsewhere, and sometimes returned to a familiar genre (as in the case of the military novel Pakachaj miane, saldacik), only to create a masterpiece. His final work, the autobiography Douhaja daroha dadomu (A long way home), confirms this statement.62

Epilogue Exile and a Long Way Home

What should a person do who is not like everyone around him, when he is a creator and acts under inner impulses of selfexpression? How is he to overcome a brutal dependence on the social order that always levels his Gift from God? V. Bykau, A Long Way Home

Fourteen months before his death, Bykau completed his last literary work, a memoir. Bykau began writing this book a few months after the following was recorded in the February 2001 interview: ZG: Have you ever thought of writing memoirs? VB: Many of my friends have suggested that and encouraged me to write them. I myself am convinced that it is not a good idea. ZG: May I ask why? VB: I have not yet cooled down about my past. It is still very vivid and alive for me. One has to become colder, to gain a distance from events in order to write good memoirs. No, I don't think I will ever do it. What for? Who needs it? People of my generation know these stories all too well; they are under their skin, so to speak. ZG: What about the younger generations? Many of them know almost nothing about their past. VB: Why should young souls be disturbed by a terrifying past they did not live through? ZG: You know perfectly well why ... sorry to be so direct ... The young should know about your past, first of all, because it is their direct heritage. In many ways, genetically, this is their experience, too. What kind of future can people have without the past? Besides, they might learn ... After all, this is one of the Belarusan people's

206 Vasil Bykau

misfortunes: educated people know more about Belarus in the sixteenth century than about the history of their own families. The tsarist government created its own mythology about "western territories"; later, the Soviet authorities invented their own. But what really was happening with Belarusans from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries, their private and family history, is vague or unknown to the population in general. VB: What you're saying makes sense. Let's take Iryna Michajlauna, for example. What can she know about her father when his name was forbidden in the family? Adults were afraid to talk about him after he was shot, especially with children: after all, officially he was stigmatized as "an enemy of the people." ZG: The whole nation, it seems, has forgotten its ancestry and heritage out of fear. The present situation in Belarus may be the outcome of such collective amnesia. VB: The past might take revenge; this is true. ZG: Here is one good reason for you to think about writing your memoirs. After all, who but you could do it? VB: Don't you think there is enough of this genre today? Even the former Russian bosses, Harbacou [Gorbachev] and Elcyn [Yeltsin], became celebrated writers: both wrote memoirs of their own. ZG. Oh, yes, they invented a new genre: it could be called "political fantasy." VB: They used so-called "ghost writers," so the readership does not have a real person to credit with the authorship. Elcyn's portrait entirely depends on the person who depicts him. I don't really care for literature of this kind. I have a different attitude, though, to the memoirs of genuine leaders like Prime Minister Churchill or General de Gaulle. Even if some of them are not completely factual or true, their faults - or even lies, if you will - reflect the real characters of these people. And when they are truthful and sincere, these memoirs are priceless. ZG: I hope that some day you will change your mind and write your memoirs. Do you keep diaries? VB: No, I have never felt a need for diaries, though during the war I had a drawing album with me. So, during my temporary breaks, I used to do sketches. It turned out to be a risky business. I've been questioned a number of times about those sketches and was threatened with arrest because of them. Once, at the end of the war, in Hungary, I made a drawing of my soldiers at rest time. You know, a

207 Epilogue

peaceful picture: some are eating, some are sleeping; in short, nothing of a secret nature was in this sketch. I sent this drawing via mail to one of my friends. A few days later, the people from the secret military police [SMERS] came to our battalion to see me, and they questioned me. ZG: What kinds of questions did they ask? VB: The usual type: who drew it; did I have permission; why did I do it; did I realize that this is espionage, and a treacherous kind of activity, etc. ... After this experience I dropped any idea of making notes or drawings. ZG: What, in your opinion, is the difference between the genres of diary and memoir? VB: I think that a diary is a record of experience and facts of everyday life situations, while memoirs are a historical and philosophical interpretation of events. Of course, memoirs are often extremely subjective. Though diaries are subjective, too (because of their nature), at the same time they are more objective, because of the factual data that diaries are based on. ZG: In general, memoirs allow more contemplation than diaries do. VB: Yes, first of all because of different personal interpretations. Let me give you an example with Anna Akhmatova. When she was once complimented on her good memory, she replied that the compliment should be paid to her diary: "Why should I remember details? When I need them, I open my diary." Or this famous anecdote about Albert Einstein: a female student of his asked him what the speed of sound is. She was flabbergasted when this famous scientist told her that he did not know. And he replied: "Why should I overload my memory with details that I can always look up in any reference book?" In short, diaries are more precise; it is a private or personal encyclopedia that gives a current account in a business-like manner, if you will. Memoirs, on the other hand, mostly reflect, mirror, or demonstrate an author's relation to the same data. It is hard to guess what moves a creator to change his mind and why an autobiography or memoir evoked such apprehension in a creative writer. A nod to Pasternak's explanation of the same notion could be helpful: "I am not writing my biography. I turn to it when somebody else's requires me to. Together with its main character I believe that only the hero merits an actual account of his life, whereas the story of a poet is utterly inconceivable in such form ... The poet imparts to the whole of

208 Vasil Bykau

his life such a steep incline that it cannot exist on the vertical axis of biography where we expect to find it. It cannot be found under his name and has to be considered under someone else's, in the biographical column of his followers."1 Bykau's Douhaja daroha dadomu (A long way home) is an excellent answer and illustration to both his own words given as an epigraph from his memoirs and Pasternak's understanding of self-expression in the mode of autobiography. Bykau's memories confirmed once again that he worked as he lived: with ardent passion and noble dignity. As a humanitarian and a man of wisdom, he continually exposed prejudice as a human vice that has been given birth by two powerful and evil parents: hatred and ignorance. At the same time, Bykau ends his memoir with an express hope for humanity. Here are a few more lines taken from the February interview, where Bykau spoke about his strivings for home, later reflected in his memoirs: VB: Iryna Michajlauna and I would prefer to return home. Home is home. We are not going to live in exile for the rest of our lives. I do hope that the Belarusan regime will change; I have no illusions about the Belarusan economy: for my generation it is hopeless. However, the political situation might change. In terms of material values, neither Iryna Michajlauna nor I ever needed much; and now, in our old age, our needs are very minimal: I am positive that I could always make enough for bulba [potatoes] and a piece of bread. In terms of information, the radio station Svaboda ["liberty"in Belarusan], currently broadcast in the Czech Republic, is easily accessible in Belarus: we have good short-wave radio back home. It is excellent, you know, a really democratic station, and their information is extremely instructive, truthful and useful. There are many good radio stations all over Europe, but Svaboda, definitely stands out. ZG: Do you co-operate with the editorial staff of this station? Do they ever produce any programs about you? VB: They are more than kind and attentive to my work, and of course, I fully co-operate with them. For example, they aired all the parables I wrote, those published in Pachadzane,2- and the rest that were written later on. After Bykau's death in June 2,003, Svaboda aired the writer's last offering, A Long Way Home.

Instead of Necrology

The advocate of the Belarusan people is no longer with us. Ryhor Baradulin, at Bykau's funeral

For the people of the Soviet Union, the Second Patriotic War as well as World War Two began on 22 June 1941. Vasil Bykau passed away on 22 June 2003, sixty-two years later. It is hard to miss the accidental symbolism of this date: the anti-war writer left the land of living on this illfated anniversary. Although no one knew when and where the writer would be buried (apparently the government tried to make a state secret of the event), many thousands gathered to bid him farewell. (The Belarusan police reported twenty-five thousand people, while estimates from the Belarusan Peoples Front state more than fifty thousand.) Crowds of Belarusans with national banners came from everywhere. Friends and admirers carried Bykau's casket from the city centre to its outskirts, many kilometres distant, where the designated cemetery, the Eastern Cemetery, is located. In December 2002, Prague became Vasil and Iryna Bykau's temporary home on Vaclav Havel's invitation, after they had spent two years as guests of the German chapter of PEN International. In Prague, Vasil Bykau was diagnosed with cancer and underwent an operation. The couple came to Belarus at the end of May 2003 f°r a period of two weeks, intending to return to Prague on 6 June. The writer was hospitalized a few days before the the couple's planned departure from Belarus. On 19 June, Bykau's seventy-ninth birthday, I telephoned his wife; three days later I had a conversation with his widow. Arnold McMillin's article in the Guardian, printed on the occasion of the writer's funeral, states:

210 Vasil Bykau

He suffered considerable KGB harassment, and his courage earned him the soubriquet of the Belarusan Solzhenitsyn ... Bykaii received a literary prize, "Triumph," the Russian [equivalent to the Man-] Booker prize in 1997, and two years ago was proposed by Havel and Czeslaw Milosz for the Nobel Prize in literature. It was not, however, only as an outstanding writer who put Belarusan literature on the map, but as a morally courageous patriot that he was greatly loved and will be so missed.1

Vasil Bykau's life and work also validate his late comrade-in-arms and fellow Belarusan writer Uladzimir Karatkevic's reworking of a Russian saying, "Alone you can never triumph in the field" into Belarusan: Even alone, you can triumph if you remain unyielding.* Vasil Bykau stood tall all his life, and demonstrated that he could make it on his own when critical situations arose in his literary career, his earlier military and later civilian life. On the spiritual level, he has never been alone: behind him is a rich history of Belarusan literary and folk cultures, and beside him there are a good number of his contemporaries and younger Belarusan writers, each of them with their own merit. Together they face an army of devoted and demanding readers, who expect and receive their invaluable cultural insights and moral leadership. According to Boris Pasternak, "A book is a piece of hot, flaming conscience - and nothing more. "3 Pasternak exemplified this statement in his life and his literary works. So did Bykau. The book of Vasil Uladzimiravic Bykau, the book of his personal flaming conscience, has no end.

APPENDIX

A Note on Belarusan Pronunciation andTransliterations

The Belarusan language uses two alphabets, Kirylica (Cyrillic) and Lacinka (Latin), but most modern Belarusans use the Cyrillic alphabet. Spelling in the Cyrillic alphabet has two versions. The first one, Taraskievica, is based on the twentieth-century system elaborated by the linguist Branislau Taraskievic. It was prohibited by the Soviets and replaced by Narkomauka (the "Commissars' one"), a Russified version of Belarusan. Taraskievica, however, better reflects Belarusan pronunciation, and the following chart of transliteration is based on that system. The written Belarusan language of the Taraskievica tradition has its own Latin alphabet, called Lacinka (Bielaruskaja abeceda), which was widely used in the country until it was prohibited by the Soviets, first in eastern Belarus in 192,6 and finally in western Belarus in 1939. The Lacinka has diacritical marks, as in Polish and Czech. The Taraskievica, using both Cyrillic script and Lacinka, is natural to the Belarusan and is fully used in the Western world today. In fact, contemporary scholars in Belarus and even the country's popular media are returning to both alphabets and use Lacinka as a means of transliteration for Belarusan Cyrillic. Though attempts are being made to introduce Lacinka into the Western library system, including the Library of Congress, there are still two transliteration systems in use: the Library of Congress's (LOG'S) Latin alphabet (based on Soviet Belarusan Cyrillic spelling) and the Lacinka. The reader may see the reflection of various Belarusan alphabets and transliteration systems in different spellings of Vasil Bykau's name: Vasil' Bykov (Russian), as well as his mother tongue: Byelorussian, Byelarussian, Belarusian, Bielarusan, and Belarusan. Another good example is a spelling of the Belarusan capital: Miensk turned into Minsk under the Soviets; this name stays with the present leadership of the country, while the opposition and emigres use Miensk.

212 Appendix

Belarusan was the official language of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and was the tool for producing one of the most advanced religious and secular literatures in Europe of the time. We finish this note on transliteration with a hope that the following charts will be of help to English speakers and will allow them to experience the richness of Belarusan sound. Cyrillic

Lacinka

Pronunciation

LOG

Aa B6 BB Fr Tr

a b v h g

a (in ah] b (in bid; bow] v (in vim; in vow] h (in how) g (in go)

a b v g

J\ A

d

d (in dean; deaaf)

d

^3 AS

dz

dz (in aze)

dz

^3b A3b ftx. A>K )K>K 3s 3b 3b

dz

dz (palatalized)

dz'

dz

j (in jet)

dzh

z z z

zh z

Ii

i

z (in pleasure) z (in zorro) z (palatalized in shorten eu of Zeus) i (in machine)

HH KK

j k

y (in boy) k (in kat)

k k

JI Ji J!B Jib

1 1

1 (in lamp) 1 (in million)

1 1'

MM H H

m n

m (in mom) n (in no)

m n

Hb Hb Oo

n o

n (in onion) o (in horse)

n' o

n n

p

p (in pot)

p

Pp

r

r (close to Scottish 'r' in row)

Cc

s

s (in so)

Cb cb

s

s (palatalized)

z' i

r s s' u

TT

t

t (in to)

yy

u

u (in rule)

yy

u

w (in how)

u

3. - Vaucynaja jama (The wolf pit). Moscow: Kniha, zooi. -Ego batal'on (His battalion). Moscow: Sov. pisatel', 2000. -Pachadzanie (The pilgrims). Vilnius: Nasa Niva, 2000. Includes the following: "Vucinaja staja" (The flock of ducks) "Koska i myska" (Cat and mouse) "Pahibiel zajca" (The death of a hare) "Chvastaty" (The long tail) "Chutarancy" (The farmstead's inhabitants) "Ab'iadnarinie" (Unification) "Abiazbozany lud" (Godless people) "Try slovy niamych" (Three words of a deaf mute) "Sonca u vakoncy?" (Sunshine through a window?) "Novaja cyvilizacyja" (New civilization) "Pachadzanie " (Pilgrims) "Nasarohi iduc" (Rhinoceroses are coming) "Vieza" (The tower) "Bajki zyccia" (Fables of life) "Halouny Kryhsmien" (The military chief) "Malenkaja cyrvonaja kvietacka" (The little red flower) "Na pouniu" (At the time of the full moon) "Kamen" (The stone) "Muzyka" (The musician) "Voslik" (The little donkey) -Kryzovy sliach (The crossroad). Minsk: Hronka, 1998. Includes the following: "Zamiest pradmovy" (Instead of an introduction) "Pravy belaruskaha calavieka" (Rights of a Belarusan) "Vialikaja biada" (A great misfortune) "Vyprabavarinie demakratyjej" (Testing by democracy) "Ne ostanavlivat'sia" (in Russian) (We shouldn't stop) "Dozhit' do pobedy" (in Russian) (Surviving until victory)

236 Bibliography

"Budycynia Belarusi" (The future of Belarus) "Nasa tryvoznaja pamiac" (Our turbulent memory) "Niekalki slou pra Alpijskuju baladu" (A few words about Alpine ballad] "Gumanism nevozmozhno uchredit'" (in Russian) (Humanism cannot be instituted) "Nasy sily i volia" (Our strength and freedom) "Vystuplennie na plenumie SP BSSR" (A presentation to the plenum of the Belarusan Writers' Union) "Kurapaty - daroha smierci" (Kurapaty is a road of death) "Ucora i siorinia (Yesterday and today) "Vystuplennie na y-ym z'iezdzie SP BSSR" (A presentation to the Seventh Congress of the Belarusan Writers' Union) "Pramova na i-ym z'iezdzie BNF" (A presentation to the BNF ist Congress) "Zvarot da vybarscykau" (Address to electors) "Nazad ci napierad?" (Backwards or forward?) "Vystuplerinie na sahalacskich cytariniach u Viciebsku" (A presentation to the Chagall readings in Viciebsk) "Pradmova da zbornika Inakomysliashchie (Introduction to the Anthology Dissidents) "Vystuplerinie na z-ym z'iezdzie Belaruskaha Narodnaha Frontu (A presentation to the znd Congress of Belarusan People's Front) "Budycynia respubliki" (The Future of the republic) "Vystuplerinie na kangresie zhurtavarinia Backauscyna" (A speech at the congress "Backauscyna") "Vystuplerinie na kangresie belarusistaii" (A speech at the Congress of Belarusists) "Prauda zyccia" (The truth of life) "Kab zachavac uladu" (In order to keep power) "Caho nia moza skazac nichto" (What no one can tell) "Nacyjanalnaja jednasc - instynkt vyzyvannia" (National unity - a survival instinct) "Spovedz Larysy Hienius" (The confession of Larysa Hienius) "Narodnaja pajezija" (Poetry of the people) "Z nami zastajecca" (It stays with us) "Lider" (The leader) "Pracnemsia z nariescie" (Let's finally wake up) "Los i saniec" (Fate and chance) "Boza, daj nam voli i mudrasci" (God, give us freedom and wisdom) "Posuki aptymistycnaha zychadu" (The search for an optimistic outcome) "Jon mieu vialikuju patrebu u svabodzie" (He had a great need of freedom) "Vajna i pieramoha" (War and victory) "Horki smak pieramohi" (The bitter taste of victory) "Zvyklaje carstva absurdy" (The ordinary kingdom of the absurd) "Kultura i paslia-talitarnaje hramadstva" (Culture and post-totalitarian society) "Cornyja liady belaruskaj dziarzaunasci" (The black ice of Belarusan statehood)

237 Bibliography

"Meta i srodki" (Aim and means) "Belarus pliashet i poet" (in Russian) (Belarus is dancing and singing) "Cyrvona-karycnevyja" (Coloured in red-brown) "Nado iskat' vykhod" (in Russian) (We need to find a way out) "Belarus stala zhertvoi svoei nerazborchivosti, no i Rossiia mozhet zabludit'sia" (in Russian) (Belarus has fallen victim to its own lack of discrimination; but, Russia may also lose its way) "Illiuziia i real'nost'" (in Russian) (Illusion and reality) "Vsiakaia diktatura konchaet zapretom na zhizn'" (in Russian) (Any dictatorship results in a prohibition against life) "Slova i ulada" (The word and the authorities) -Kryzovy sliach (The crossroad). Minsk: Hronka, 1999. -Sciana (The wall). Minsk: Nasa Niva, 1997. Includes the following: "Ad autara (From the author) (a two-and-a-half-page preface) "Vajna i peramoha" (War and victory) Pakachaj mianie, saldacik (Give me some of your loving, soldier boy) "Ruzovy tuman" (The rosy fog) "Pahorak" (The hill) "Palitruk Kalamijec" (Political instructor Kalamijec) "Kaciusa" (Kaciusa) "Palkavodziec" (The commander) "Padoranaje zyccio" (Life as a gift) "Zouty piasocak" (Yellow sand) "Na cornych liadach" (On the black ice) "Perad kancom" (Before the end) "Narodnyja msciucy" (The people's avengers) "Bednyja liudzi" (Poor folks) "Muzyka" (The musician) "Voslik" (The donkey) "Sciana" (The wall) -Sciuza (The chill, 1969-91). Minsk: Mastackaja lit., 1993. -Na kryzach (On the crosses). Minsk: Belarus, 1992,. - Zbor tvorau u said tamach (Collected works in six volumes). Minsk: Mastackaja lit., 1991-96. - Zbor tvorau, torn i (vol. i) includes: Zurauliny kryk (The crane's cry) Trieciaja rakieta (The third flare; The third rocket) Alpijskaja balada, (Alpine ballad) Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn, 1972) Svajaki (Cousins) -Zbor tvorau, torn 2, (vol. 2.) includes: Sotnikau (Sotnikau) Zdrada (Treachery) Jaho Bataljon (His battalion) Prakliataja vysynia (The accursed hill) - Zbor tvorau, torn 3 (vol. 3) includes: Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany bridge) Abielisk (The monument)

238 Bibliography

Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack) Pajsci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return) - Zbor tvorau, torn 4 (vol. 4) includes: Znak Biady (Sign of misfortune) Pastka (The mousetrap) Miortvym nie balic (The dead feel no pain) -Zbor tvorau, torn 5 (vol. 5) includes: Kar'jer (The quarry) 17 tumane (In the fog) Ablava (The raid) - Zbor tvorau, torn 6 (vol. 6) includes: Sciuza (The chill) Aposni Sane (drama) (The last chance) "Bednyja liudzi" (Poor folks) "Na cornych liadach" (On the black ice) "Perad kancom" (Before the end) -Portent of Disaster. Trans. Nigel Coey. Moscow: Mastackaja lit., 1989. - Zbor tvorau u chatyroch tamach (Collected works in four volumes). Moscow: Mastackaja lit., i98o-8z. -Zbor tvorau, torn i (vol. i) includes: Zuraiiliny kryk (The cry of the crane) Trieciaja rakieta (The third flare) Zdrada (Treachery) Alpijskaja balada, (Alpine ballad) -Zbor tvorau, torn 2 (vol. 2.) includes: Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn) Sotnikau (Sotnikau) Jaho Bataljon (His battalion). -Zbor tvorau, torn 3 (vol. 3) includes: Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack) Pajsci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return) Abelisk (The monument) Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany bridge). - Zbor tvorau, torn 4 (vol. 4) includes: Prakliataja vysynia (The accursed hill) Pastka (The mousetrap) Miortvym nie balic (The dead feel no pain) Apaviadanni (Short stories) - Vybranyja tvory udvuch tamach (Selected works in two volumes). Moscow: Mastackaja lit., 1974. - Vybranyja tvory, torn i (vol. i) includes: Zurauliny kryk (The cry of the crane) Zdrada (Treachery) Treciaja rakieta (The third flare) Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad) - Vybranyja tvory, torn z (vol. 2) includes: Apovesci i apaviadarini (Novellas and short stories)

239 Bibliography SELECTED WORKS PUBLISHED SEPARATELY

Bykau, Vasil. "Abaviazak pierad narodam" (Obligation for the people). Litaratura i mastactva (LIM), 3 January 1979. - "Ad'iazdzajucy na cacviorty usiesajuzny: Adkaz na pytanni karespandenta 'LiMa" (Leaving for the fourth [Congress], all Union writers: Replies to LiM's correspondent). Litaratura i mastactva, 19 May 1967. - "Adkaznasc pismiennika" (A writer's responsibility). Fourth Congress of all Union: Replies to LiM's correspondent). Litaratura i mastactva, 2.3 November 1979. - "Adnojcy noccu" (One night). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 7 October 1956. - "Akrajec chlieba" (A thick slice of bread). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 16 December 1960. - Apaviadannie: "Zouty piasocak" (Yellow sand). Polymia i (1995): 3-2,1. - Apaviadannie: "Zianitcyca" (A female anti-aircraft gunner); "Palkavodec" (The commander); "Pahorak" (A hill); "Palitruk Kalamijec" (Political instructor Kalamijec); "Padoranaje zyccio" (Life as a gift); Kaciusa (Kaciusa); "Sciana" (The wall); Polymia 5 (1995): 13-56. -Apaviadannie: "Truba" (The pipe). Polymia 9 (1998): 3-Z9. -Apaviadannie: "Velikodnajie iauka" (Easter egg). Polymia i (zooi): 3-2.2,. - "Apiendycyt" (Appendicitis). Zviazda, 25 August 1957. - "Biednyja liudzi" (Poor folks). Polymia i (1994): 2.9-42,. - "Cichaja zonka" (A quiet wife). Zviazda, 2,0 April 1958. - Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn). Maladosc i (1973): 10-101. -Jaho Bataljon (His battalion). Maladosc n (1975): 11-48; iz (1975): 13-100. - "Kali chocacca zyc" (When there is a desire to live). Hrodzienskaja prauda, 5 March 1959. - "Kali chocacca zyc" (When there is a desire to live). Litaratura i mastactva, zo February 1960. -Kar'jer (The quarry). Polymia 4 (1986): 3-116; 5 (1986): 5-63. -Kruhlanski most (The kruhlany bridge). Polymia z (1969): 3-61. - "Knowing What One Is Writing About." Soviet Literature iz (1979): 171-1. - "Na chutary" (At the farmstead). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 18 April 1978. - "Na pierajezdzie." (At the railway crossing). Hrodzienskaja prauda, 13 March 1960. - "Na rechnom beregu." (On the river bank). Izvestiia, 13 October I97Z. - "Na urovne, no ne bolee" (in Russian) (At that level, but no higher). Literaturnaia gazeta, zi November 1984. - "Nasha trevozhnaia pamiat'" (in Russian) (Our anxious memory). Izvestiia, 2.5 May 1975. - "Nasha tsel'- mir" (in Russian) (Our goal is peace). Gudok, 31 August 1983. - "Na cornych liadach" (On the black ice). Polymia i (1994): 3-16. - "Na uschodzie sonca" (At sunrise). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 13 December 1959. - "Novye vysoty masterstva" (in Russian) (New heights of craftsmanship). Grodnenskaia pravda, 14 October 1958.

240 Bibliography

-Pakacbaj mianie, saldadk (Give me some of your loving, soldier boy). Polymia 4 (1996): 3-63. - "Pajadynak" (A duel). Bielarus, 6 September 1959. - "Pierad kancom" (Before the end). Polymia, i (1994): 16-29. - "Pa darozie u tyl" (On the way to the rear). Excerpt from Miortvym nie balic, in Litaratura i mastactva, 9 July 1965. - "Podvig khudozhnika: rozdum'ia o novykh zhivopisnykh polotnakh M. Savitskogo" (in Russian) (The heroic deed of an artist: Some thoughts about the artistic works of M. Savickii). Izvestiia, 21 January 1979. - "Pamiac achviar, pamiac pieramohi" (Memory of sacrifices, memory of victory). Litaratura i mastactva, 6 May 1983. - "Pravda voiny" (The truth of war). Novyi mir 4 (1975): 246-8. - "Radasc" (Joy). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 17 March 1957. - "Rech' na s'ezde soiuza pisatelei Belorussii" (in Russian) (Presentation at the congress of the Belarusan writers' union). Grant 61 (1966): 113-21. -Sign of Misfortune, trans. Allan Myers. New York: Allerton Press, 1990. - "Smierc catavieka" (The death of a man). Litaratura i mastactva, 15 October 1957. - "Soldat v dni mira" (in Russian) (A soldier in the days of peace). Literaturnaia gazeta, 8 May 1974. -Sotnikau(Sotnikau). Polymia n (1970): 81-177. - Treciaja rakieta (The third flare; The third rocket). Hrodzienskafa prauda, 18 February 1962; 20 February 1962; 21 February 1962; 23 February 1962. - "Tupoje piaro" (A dull pen). Litaratura i mastactva, 15 September 1956. - "Velikaia akademiia zhizn'" (in Russian) (Life is a great academy). Voprosy literatury i (1975): 126-44. - "Vernost' pamiati (in Russian) (Loyalty to memory). Literaturnaia Rossiia, 14 September 1971. - "Ulada praudy" (The power of truth). Litaratura i mastactva, 27 August, 1965. - "Vaina i peramoha" (War and victory). Polymia 4 (1995): 3-13. - Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack). Excerpt, Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 18 Junuary 1974. - Voucaja zhraja (The wolf pack). Maladosc 7 (1974): 13-104. - "Zhizn'iu obiazan" (in Russian) (I owe my life). Literaturnaia gazeta, 6 November 1974. - Znak Biady (Sign of misfortune). Excerpt, Litaratura i mastactva, 25 June 1982. -Znak Biady (Sign of misfortune). Minsk: Mastackaja lit., 1984. SELECTED CRITICAL WORKS

Adamovic, A. Vasil Bykau. Minsk: Belarus, 1986. -Dodumyvat' do kontsa (To think through to the end). Moscow: Sov. pisatel', 1988: 171-4. - "Apoviesci Vasilia Bykava" (Vasil Bykau's novellas). Polymia z (1973): 183-220.

241 Bibliography

- Gorisonty belorusskoi prozy (Horizons of Belarusan prose). Moscow: Sov. pisatel', 1974. - "Torzhestvo cheloveka" (in Russian) (A man's triumph). Voprosy literatury 5 (1973): 111-51. Adamuska, U. Palitycnyja represiji 2o-$o-x hadouna Belarusi (Political repression from the 192.08 to the 19505 in Belarus). Moscow: Belarus, 1994. Afanas'ev, A. Interview. "Vsled za chelovekom" (in Russian) (Following a man). Komsomol'skaia pravda, 2,7 January 1983. Afanasjeu, I. M. "Antyvajennaja simvolika ii apoviesci V. Bykava Znak biady" (Anti-war symbolism in Bykau's novel Sign of Misfortune). Viesci Akademiji Navuk BSSR 6 (1987): 83-8. Aksevskij, M. "Na starykh poziciiakh" (in Russian) (Standing on familiar ground). Review of Kruhlianski most. Vo slavu rodiny, 6 September 1969. Allport, G. The Nature of Prejudice, 2,5th Anniversary ed. New York: Addison-Wesley, 1993. Andrajuk, S. "Calaviek pieramahaje" (Man will be the victor). Review of Jaho batalion. Litaratura i mastactva, iz March 1976. Apter, T. Fantasy Literature - An Approach to Reality. London: Macmillan, 1982.. Babaeva, L. V. "Tema Velikoi Otechestvennoi voiny v povestiakh Vasilia Bykova: Na materiale povestei Tret'ia raketa i Sotnikov" (in Russian) (The theme of the great patriotic war in Bykau's The Third Flare and Sotnikau). Voprosy Russkoi literatury i (1976): 55-60. Bakijevic, R. "Muznaja prauda" (A courageous truth). Litaratura i mastactva, 10 December 1963. Baklanov, G. "Muzhestvennaia povest' - O tret'ei rakete" (in Russian) (A courageous story about The Third Flare}. Literaturnaia gazeta, i March 1962. Banysheva, H. "Dekikka zamiatok do tvorchasti biloruskkogo pyskmennyka Vasylja Bykova" (in Czech) (A Few notes on the works of Belarusan writer Vasil Bykau). Duklja Presov Z4,i (1976): 55-9. Barskaia, T. Interview, "Pamiat' serdtsa i razuma" (in Russian) (Memory of a heart and a mind). Kurortnaia gazeta, 31 October 1975. Belaruskija pismenniki. Biblijahraficny slounik (Belarusan writers: Bibliographical dictionary), 428-44. Minsk: Belaruskaja encyklapedyja, 1992. Berestovskaia, D."Geroicheskoe i tragicheskoe v sovremennoi proze o Velikoi Otechestvennoi voine" (in Russian) (The heroic and tragic in contemporary prose about the Great Patriotic War). Filologicheskie Nauki 3 (1989): 3-9. Biarozkin, R. "Sionnia ab vajnie" (A word about the war today). Review of "Adna noc" (One night). Zviazda, 19 October 1965. Bicitnieu, L. "Inaks zyc nielha" (One cannot live differently). Review of Abielisk (Obelisk). Mahilyouskaja prauda 2,0 October 1971. Bikkenin, N. "Voina, moral' i literatura" (in Russian) (War, morality and literature). Oktiabr' 10 (1980): 195-200. Bird, T. "Introductory Word." Zapisy 22 (1996): 2-3. Bliumun, G. Interview. "Vesomo i mudro" (With weight and wisdom). Knizhnoe obozrenie, 15 June 1984.

242 Bibliography

Bondarev, Ju. "Der Erzahler Wassil Bykau" (in German) (The narrator Vasil Bykaii). Kunst und Literatur 21 (1973): 905-9. Bondarev, Ju., V. Bykov, and M. Kuznetsov. "Pochemu i segodnia my pishem o voine?" (Why do we write about the war even today?). Literaturnaia gazeta, 19 February 1975. Borodin, L. "Pervoe vpechatlenie: mezhdu chuzhim i rodnym" (in Russian) (A first impression: In between one's own and someone else's). Literaturnaia Gazeta, zi March 1990. Borshchagovskii, A. "Zhizn' i smert' Khvedora Rovby" (in Russian) (The life and death of Khvedor Rovba). Oktiabr' 4 (1990): 203-6. Brown, D. "The Art of Vasil Bykau." Zapisy 20 (1992): 15-23. Buhajou, D. "Aposnija dni i biassmiercie Ivana Ciareski" (The last days and immortality of Ivan Ciareska). Review of Alpijskaja balada. Litaratura i mastactva, 2 March 1965. Buran, V. "Bol zyvych," (The pain of survivors). Litaratura i mastactva, 28 September 1965. - Vasil Bykau: Narys tvorcasci (Vasil Bykau: A narration of artistic life). Minsk: Mastackaja lit., 1976. Chagall, M. The Artist: The Works of the Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1947. - Catalogue of an Exhibition. Mediterranean Works. Paris: ADAG, 1977. - Moia zhizn' (My life). Moscow: Ellis Luck, 1994. Chadasouski, V. Interview. "Prauda zabytaha pakalierinia" (The truth of a murdered generation). Holas Radzimy, 17 March 1983. Cheremiskina, N. "RoP performativnykh glagolov v kompozitsii khudozhestvennogo teksta: Na materiale povesti V. Bykova Sotnikov." In Problemy sovremennoi filologii: Dialektika formy i soderzhaniia v iazyke i literature (in Russian), 18-28. (Problems of contemporary philology: Dialectics of form and content in language and literature). Ed. S. Adlivankin, K. Veselukhina, and L. Gruzberg. Perm': Permskii gosudarstvennyi universitet, 1982. Chilkievic, U. "Hieraicnaja trahiedyja" (A heroic tragedy). Mahilouskaja prauda, 30 May 1975. Cichancuk, M. "Calaviek i vajna" (Man and war). Zviazda, 7 February 1963. Clough, G. Translation of Bykau's Sotnikau: The Ordeal. New York: Dutton, 1972. Cvetkov, A. "Vozmozhnosti i granitsy pritchi" (in Russian) (Possibilities and limitations of a parable). Voprosy literatury 5, (1973): 152-70. Davydov, D. Dnevnik partizanskikh deistvii i8i2-go goda (A diary of the partisan actions of 1812). Ed. V. Belinskii, Moscow, 1840. Dedkov, I. Vasil' Bykov: Povest' o cheloveke, kotoryi vystoial (in Russian) (A tale about a person who stood tall). Moscow: Sov. pisatel', 1990. - "Siuzhet iz novoi arkheologii" (in Russian) (A plot from the new archaeology). Literaturnoe Obozrenie 10 (1986): 50-3. - "Bykov veren Bykovu" (in Russian) (Bykov is true to Bykov). Literaturnoe Obozrenie 12 (1978): 41-4. Doshkevich, S. "V godinu ispytanii" (in Russian) (At times of trial). Vo Slavu Rodiny., 27 October 1972.

243 Bibliography

- "Dozhit' do pobedy" (in Russian) (To survive until victory). Literaturnaia gazeta, i January 1985. Dubovets, S. "Poniat' sebia: beseda z Vasilem Bykovym." (in Russian) (To understand oneself: Conversations with Vasil' Bykov). Druzhba Narodov 6(1984): 249-53. Dudarev, A. "Pri svete pravdy" (in Russian) (In the light of truth). Literaturnaia gazeta, 15 July 1987. Dziubajla, P. "Cacviora na poli boju." (Four at the battlefield). Cyrvonaja Zmiena, 6 September 1961. - "Prykmiety tvorcaj stalasci" (Signs of creative maturity). Litaratura i mastactva, 9 October 1965. Fedorova, M. "Geroi knig Vasilia Bykova" (in Russian) (Vasil' Bykov's protagonists). Russkii iazyk za rubezhom 2 (1985): 93-6. Gerasimova, S. Interview. "K istokam podviga" (in Russian) (Toward sources of a heroic deed). Vodnyi transport, 16 April 1982. Gimpelevich, Z. "Vasil Bykau's Belarusan Pilgrimage." Canadian Slavonic Papers/Revue Canadienne des Slavistes 3 (September zooo): 343-62. - "An interview with Vasil Bykau in Frankfurt: February 2.001" (forthcoming in Zapisy). - "An interview with Vasil Bykau in 1995." Zapisy 23 (1999): 66-76. - "An interview with Vasil Bykau in 1996." Zapisy 23 (1999): 77-93. - "Vasil' Bykov - povestvovatel' belorusskosti" (in Russian) (Vasil Bykau: The narrator of Belarusanness). Arpalbaruthenica Rossica Polonica 33 (1997): 123-9. - "The Tradition of 'Poor Folk' in Bykau's Recent Short Stories." Zapisy 22 (1996): 59-67Golub, lu. Interview. "Radi pravdy" (in Russian) (For the sake of truth). Grodnenskaia Pravda, 19 June 1984. Grossman, V. Forever Flowing. New York: Harper & Row, 1972. Gubko, N. "Tvorchezkaia sila pamiati" (in Russian) (The creative power of memory). Zvezda 6 (1975): 190-201. Hadzicki, A. Interview. "Nie maje prava maucac" (One does not has a right for silence). Holas Radzimy, 21 June 1984. Heier, E. "The Process of Dehumanization in Gogol's Literary Portraits." Russian Literature 17 (1985): 270. Hiersche, A., "Es ist noch nicht alles iiber den krieg gesagt: Das hohere prinzip des Belorussen Wassil Bykau" (in German) (Not everything has been said about the war: The higher principle of Belarusan Wassil Bykau). In Was kann denn ein dichter auf erde, Betrachtungen Uber Moderne Sowjetische Schriftsteller (What can a poet do on earth), 270-89. Ed. A. Hiersche and E. Kowalski. Berlin: Aufbau, 1982. - "Kriegserlebnis und sozialistisches ethos der gegenwart: Das beispiel Wassil Bykau," (in German) (Experiences of war and the socialist ethos of the present: Example: Wassil Bykau). In Verteidigung der Menschheit Antifaschistischer Kampf und Aufbau. Ed. E. Kowalski. Berlin: Akademie, 1975- "Wassil Bykau: Ausgewahlte Novellen" (in German) (Wassil Bykau: Selected novellas). Weimarer Beitrage TO (1979): 132-41.

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Index

"Ab'iadnarinie" (Unification), 198 "Abiazbozany liud" (Godless people), 198 Abielisk (The monument), 94-8; collectivism in, 143. Ablava (The raid), 136-9, 147; collectivism in, 143; gloominess of, 133; moral degradation in, 138; plot of, 137-8; sentimentality in, 139 absurdity, of world, 188 Achremcyk, Ivan, 30 actual parable, 195-6 Adamovic, Ales, 13, 14, 17, 34, 72, 91, 94, 203 Adamuska, Uladzimir, 143 Ahiejeu, in Kar'jer, 122-32 akruzency, 125 alcoholism, 41, 199, 200 Alexandria, hospital, 37 allegory, 196, 198, 201, 200 Alpijskaja balada (Alpine ballad), 7, 39, 61-4; collectivism in, 143-4; plot of, 62; romantic theme in, 62-3 Anariieu, in Prakliataja vysnia, 81-4 "Anda noc" (One night), 156 Andrejeuna, Nadzezda, 42, 43 animal protagonists, 196-8 anthologies: Sciana, 182-4; Na kryzach, 173 anti-hero, 98, 115 anti-semitism, 12, 22-3. See also Jews. Aposni Sane (The last chance), 155, 167-71; dreams and fantasy in, 169-71 Apter, T.E., 170 Arlavec, in Pastka, 112-14

Arlou, Leska, 3 5 army. See military service; Red Army art college, 12, 26-7, 29-32, 41, 87 artist friends, 20-3 2 Artist's Shop, 41 Arts and Practical Institute, 27 Ash, Randolph Henry, 172 Asipovicy, stationing at, 44 Ausiejeu, in Zurauliny, 5 5 autobiography, 12-13; in Douhaja daroha dadomu, 205-8; in writings, 115-16, 117 Azevic, in Sciuza, 144-6 Azievic, Dem'ian, 25 Bahacka, Piatrok and Sciapanida, in Znak Biady, 106-7 Bahdonavic, Maksim, 18, 51 Bahusevic, Francisak, 19, 51 "Bajki zyccia" (Fables of life), 200 Baradulin, Ryhor, 15, 28, 2i8n28 Baranouskaja, in Kar'jer, 126-30 Barsceuski, Jan, 51 battlefield literature, 5, 48, 52-3, 85. See also lieutenant's prose; war "Bednyja liudzi" (Poor folks), 158, 163-6, 188 Belarus: collective farms in, 141-2 (See also collective farms; collectivism); democracy vs. police state in, 5, 8 (See also Lukasenka); in Treciaja rakieta, 59; independence of, 197, 198; liberation of, 40, 90; losses of, in wwii, 49, 86-8; in "Svajaki," 66; Nazi occupation of, 86-91 (See also Nazi occupation); unification of, with

252 Index

Russia, 177-8 (See also Soviet regime). Belarusan Central Rada (BCR), 89, 2.2.31128 Belarusan Corps of Self-Defence (BCS), 2Z3n2.5 Belarusan identity, 50-3, 59, 161, 174, 186-7 Belarusan language, 50-1, 173, 174-6, 179, 180-1; knowledge of, 41-2.; in parables, 198-9; pronunciation of, 211-13 Belarusanness, 50-3, 59, 174 Belarusan People's Self-assistance (EPS), 89, 2.2.3nz4 Belarusan Regional Defence (BRD), 89, 2,23nz9 Belarusan School of Partisan Training, 90 Belarusan Trust Rada (BTR), 89, zz3nz7 Belarusan Union of Writers, speech to, 173 Belarusan Youth Union (BYU), 89, 2.23n2.6 Belarusan nationalism, 50-3, 174, in Kar'jer, 130; national character and, 186-7. See a^so nationalism Belarusans, as characters, 52-3, 59, 74, 83 Beliaeva, Hanna, 3 1 belles lettres, 7 Bergamini, Georgio, 39 betrayal: in Pajsci i nie viarnucca, 101-4; in Zdrada, 73-4. See also traitors; treachery biography, 49. See also autobiography Bird, Thomas E., 52, 177 birthplace, 11-13, 5 2 Bliscynski, in Zdrada, 52, 73 Bocharov, A., 115 Bolshevik Revolution, 158 Bolshevism, 109; fear of, 149; peasants under, 141; in Sciuza, 144; in short stories, 160-2 book within a book, 123 Brown, Deming, 134 Brytvin, in Kruhlanski most, 91-3, 102

Bykau, Vasil Uladzimiravic: as anti-war writer, 47-8, 209 (see also lieutenant's prose; war); birthplace of, 11-13; death of, 205, 209; drawing by, 206-7; education of (See education; schools); existentialism of, 8-9, 193-4 (see also existentialism); family of, 11-15, 42-5 43; interviews with: see interviews; journalism career of, 7, 45-48, 172-3; love of land, 11-12, 28, 141-2, 186, 194; morality and humanitarianism of, 14-16, 91, 173, 178, 194, 203, 208; name of, 12, 116; patriotism and nationalism of, 174, 177, 210; in Prague, 209-10; realism of, 51-2, 194 (see also realism); works of, 155-6, 229ni3, 235-40; writing style of, 79-80, 84 Camus, Albert, 8, 187-8, 192-3, 203, 2311137 cancer, 9, 209 captivity: death vs., 71, 124; shame and, 58 Carnou, in Pastka, 113-14 Catholic Church, 23-4 Catkin (Zadkkine), 27 censorship, 8, ii4ni7, 156, 168, 173, 23in23 Centre Army Group Headquarters, 88 Chagall, Marc, 11-12, 26, 27-9, 2i6n2i chance, 188 characters: Belarusan, 50-3, 174; Bolshevik, 163; existentialist, 194; familiar, 124; female (see women characters); modern, 116-17; negative, 52, 74; in partisan novels, 85; peasant, 134-5, 141-3, 151, i53~4> 175; Soviet, 134-5. See also specific names of characters Chekhov, Anton, 13, 15, 72 Chernobyl catastrophe, 7 childhood, 11-18 children: illegitimate, 156; in Abielisk, 95> 96-8; in Pajsci i nie viarnucca, 101; in Sotnikau, 67-72; in "Svajaki," 65-6

253 Index

choice theme, 81-4, 98-9, 101-3, 122, 166 churches, destruction of, 23 "Chutarane" (The farmstead's inhabitants), 198 "Chvastaty" (The long tail), 197-8 Ciareska, Ivan, in Alpijskaja balada, 62-3 Cichanovic, Jauhen, 31 Cimoskin, in Zdrada, 73-5 classic parable, 195, 197 class structure, in Zurauliny cryk, 5 5 collaboration theme, 87, 89, 98, 129-30, 197-9 collective farms, 18-19, 25, 41, 62, 108-9, I4I- &ee also collectivization. collective pardon, 25 collectivization, 108-9, 227nn4, 5; in Ablava, 136-7; casualties of, 143; in Sauza, 142, 143-4, 149, 151, 152, 154. See also collective farms. Communist Party, 25, 44-5, 90, 115. See also Soviet regime compassion theme, 70, 126-30, 166-7 concentration camps, 62, 124 conscience, 103 conservatism, 161 cornflower, 12 cosmopolitanism, 174 Council of People's Commissars, 30 cowardice, 58, 71 cross: of Eufrarsinnia of Polack, 87; as sign of misfortune, 108 crow symbol, 109 cruelty, 91 culture, nationalism as, 52 Czechoslovakia, 8-9, 209-10 "Daroha dadomu" (On the way home), 156 Daroska, in Sduza, 148-52 Davydov, Denis, 91, 224^3 Dazyc da svitannia (To live until the dawn), 7, 64-6 death, 9, 36, 40, 69-70, 205, 209. See also suicide Dedkov, Igor', 47, 48, 54; onjaho Bataljon, 76, 81; on parables, 203-4;

on Voucaja zhraja, 98; on Znak Biady, 105 dehumanization theme, 136-9, 157, 158, 163, 165-9. See also fear democracy, 50-1, 97-8, 114, 203 deserters, 101-2 destiny, in "Perad kancom," 159 diary, memoir vs., 207 dictatorship, 169, 190-1, 197-201, 202, 203. See also Lukacenka; totalitarianism disappearances, 24-5 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 97, 157, 158, 165, 169-70 Douhaja daroha dadomu (A long way home), 46, 204, 208 draft, 3 5-6. See also military service dreams, 103-4, 132, 169-70, 202 education, 12, 19, 21, 25-6, 30; after military service, 43; Belarusan, 50-1; democracy through, 97-8; in Kar'jer, 127, 128; military, 35-6. See also schools emotional memory, 13 enlightenment, through dreams, 170 enlistment, 35-6. See also military service "Estafeta" (The contest), 156 evil: as equal to good, 132; Germans and, i oo; irrationality and, 181-2; in Kruhlanski most, 91; in parables, 195-6; struggle against, 94, 98, 103, 169 executions, 70-1, 199-201 exemplary story, 196 existentialism, 8-9, 101, 131, 182-93; choice and, 72; death and, 69-70; in parables, 203; in U tumane, 133 existentialists, 187-8, 193-4 expropriation of land, 107 Extraordinary State Commission (ESC), 86-7 fairy tale, 196, 197 faith, 104, 126-9, 154-5. See al$o ren" gion fantasies, 16, 177, 229^0; in Aposni

254 Index

Sane, 167-8, 169-70; in Dazyc da svitannia, 66; in parables, 198, 2,02.; political, 2,06; of traitors, loz farming, 18-19, 33. See also collective farms. fascism, 34. See also Nazi regime father, 13-14, 139 Father Kiryl, in Kar'jer, 126-7 fear, 71, of authorities, 18; of death, 162.; dehumanization through, 165-6; in Kar'jer, 125; in Miortvym nie balic, 114-15; national memory and, 206; in parables, 2,00; in Sciuza, 148, 149, 150; in short stories, 165 female characters. See women characters. Finland, 8, 34, 39 Fisar, in Zurauliny cryk, 54-5, 57 flashbacks, 73, 95, 146, 191 fog metaphor, 133 Forever Flowing (Grossman), 165 formalism, 31 freedom, 179, 191, 193, 194, 202. free speech, 179. See also censorship free thought, 190 front lines, 105-2.1 Fruza, in "Na sciazyne zyccia," 156, 157 Gaidar, Arkadii, 17 General Commissariat of Belarus, 88 German occupation. See Nazi occupation. Germany, 34, 39. See also Nazi occupation ghettos, 88, 89 glasnost', 7 Gogol, Nikolai, 156, 157, 158, 165, 167 Golgotha, 108 Goncharov, Ivan, 17 Gorkii, Maksim, 17 grandmother, 13-14 Grossman, Vasily, 165, 166 guilt, no "Halouny Kryhsmen" (The military chief), 201 Halubin, in Pajsci i nie viarnucca, 101

Harbaciuk, in Miortvym nie balic, 120-1 Harecki, Maksim, 155, 228n35 Harodnia, 42-3, 45-6 hatred, 176 Heier, Edmund, 162, 166 helplessness, 16 hero, positive, 116 heroism, 71, 161, 186-7 Hlecyk, Vasil, in Zurauliny, 53, 54-5 Hluskevic, in "Perad kancom," 158-61 Hrodna, in Dazyc da svitannia, 64-5 Hrodnenskaja prauda (newspaper),48 humanism, 52, 165-7 Hungary, 19-20, 37 illness, during war, 3 7-8 imagination, 170, 190 imitation, 188 impressionists, 27 independence theme, 199-200 individualism, 191, 202, 203 infantry prose. See lieutenant's prose informers, 45, 165-8 inner monologues, 73, 112, 146, 162, 163, 187 instincts, survival, 102 intelligentsia, 7, 29, 97, 197 interrogation, in Sciuza, 151 interviews: about autobiography, 205-6, 208; about captivity, 58; about childhood education, 18-25; about language, 179-80; about military service, 34-6; about secret police, 163-4 inversion technique, 95, 145 Italy, 38-9 Ivanoiiski, in Dazyc da svitannia, 64-6 Jachimouski, in Znak Biady, 106-7 Jaho Bataljon (His battalion), 75-81; characters in, 76-7; plot of, 76-81 Jakerson, David, 27, 2i7n24 Janinka, in Dazyc da svitannia, 65 Janka, in Znak Biady, 109 Jarmalaiava (Ermolaeva), 2i7n24 Jews, 23, 27-9, 88, 128, 162. See also anti-semitism journalism, 7, 45-8, 172-3

255 Index

Judaism. See Jews. Julia, in Alpijskaja balada passim, 62-3 just war, 34, 53 Kacia, in Miortvym nie balic, 117-18 Kalinouskij's rebellion, zoi "Kameri" (The stone), 201-2 Kantracky, Victar, 26 Kar'jer (The quarry), 106, 122-32; characters in, 128-9, I3°-1; collaboration theme in, 129-30; death vs captivity in, 124; quarry theme in, 122-4, I2 5) religion in, 126-9; war setting in, 123, 125-6 Karnila, in Znak Biady, no Karpenka, in Zurauliny cryk, 54-5, 57 Kierkegaard, S0ren, 178-9, 188, 232n4i kindness, 100, 126-8, 166-7 Klava, in Voucaja zhraja, 100 Klein, Boris, 163-4 Klimcanka, in Pastka, 112-14 Kolas, Jakub, 18 Komsomol organization, 45, 137 Korean War, 43 Korolenko, Vladimir, 17 "Koska i myska" (Cat and mouse), 197, 198 Kruhlanski most (The Kruhlany Bridge), 85, 91-4 "Kruty berach raki" (The steep bank of a river), 156 Kryvyonak, in Treciaja rakieta, 57, 59 Kryzovy sliach (The crossroads), 7, 172, 177 Kublicy, 21-3, 64 kulaks, 17, 55, 109-10, 143 Kupala, Janka, 18 Kuprin, 27 Kurcanka, Andrej, 42 Kurile Islands, 43 Kuz'michev, Igor', 47 labour, 193 land: love for, 11-12, 28, 141-2, 186; in writing, 194. See also nationalism; patriotism language, 179; in parables, 198-9, 203; Russian, 179-81. See also Belarusan language.

Latvia, 13 laughter, 200 Lazarev, Lazar', 54; on Abielisk, 97; on Alpijskaja balada, 63; onjaho Bataljon, 76; on Kruhlanski most, 91-3; on Miortvym nie balic, 115-17; on Pastka, 113-14; on short stories, 157; on Sotnikau, 71; on Treciaja rakieta, 57, 60-1; on Voucaja zhraja, 98; Lazniak, in Treciaja rakieta, 56-60 leadership theme, 198, 199, 200, 203 Leitman, Isaac, 31 Liasicki (Lissitzky), El, 27 Liauchuk, in Voucaja zhraja, 98-100 lieutenant's prose, 47, 53-67; anti-war sentiment in, 53-4; characters of, 55-6, 57 life, value of, 36, 156 Liusia, in Treciaja rakieta, 58-9 logic, 15 London, Jack, 17 loneliness, 79-80 loss theme, 65 love theme. See romantic themes luck, 138-9 Luk'ianau, in Treciaja rakieta, 57-8 Lukasenka, Alaksandar, 4-5, 8, 9, 43, 169; Belarusan language under, 198; collective farms and, 141; conflict with, 174; in parables, 197, 202 lung disease, 21 Lyrikou, Mixas, 17-18 malaria, 37-8 "Malenkaja cyronaja kvetacka" (The little red flower), 201 Malevic (Malevich), 27 Maroz, in Abielisk, 95-6 Maryja, in Kar'jer, 128, 131 Masada suicide, 162 Maserau, Petr, 173 maximalism, 97 McMillin, Arnold, 5-6, 65; on Alpijskaja balada, 62; on Bykau's death, 209-10; on Kar'jer, 127-8, 129-30; on Kruhlanski most, 91; on Miortvym nie balic, 114-15; on Pajsci i nie viarnucca, 101, 102; on

256 Index

partisan novels, 85; on Sotnikaii, 67-8; on U tumane, 133, 134; on Zdrada, 71-3, 74-5; on Znak Biady, 105-6; on Zurauliny, 54-5 memoir, diary vs., 207. See also autobiography Michajlauna, Iryna, 12, 38-9 Micia, in Kruhlanski most, 91-4 Mickiewicz, Adam, 51-2 Miensk, 8-9, 41, 87 Mikalaj, in Ablava, 137-8 Miklasevic, in Abielisk, 95-8 military college, 32, 35-6, 42 military service, 5, 35-6; at the front lines, 37-40; dismissal from, 44; injuries and illness during, 37-8; second tour of duty in, 42-5 millstones, destruction of, 153 Miortvym nie balic (The dead feel no pain), 112, 113-21; autobiography in, 115-16, 117; epic style of, 118; fear theme in, 114-15, love themes in, 119-20; personal and collective pain in, 121; plot structure of, 115, 116-19; secret police in, 112, 113-14; time dimension in, 123 misfortune theme, 105-21; in Miortvym nie balic, 114-21; in Pastka, 112-14; in Znak Biady, 105-11 mistrust, 161 mollusk analogy, 15 monologues, 95. See also inner monologues. morality, 14-15, 91, 176-7, *95~6, 173, 178 moral truth, 95 mother, 16 "Muzyka" (The musician), 202 Myth of Sisyphus (Camus), 192-3, 2OI-2, 203

"Na cornych liadach" (On the black ice), 161, 191 Na kryzach (On the crosses), 7, I72.-7 "Na pofiniu" (At the time of the full moon), 201

"Na sciazyne zyccia" (On the path of life), 156-7 "Na uschodze sonca" (At sunrise), 156 "Nasarohi iduc" (Rhinoceroses are coming), 200 national identity, 174-5, 186-7 nationalism, 174; Belarusan, 50-3; in Kar'jer, 130; patriotism vs., 151; in Prakliataja vysynia, 83; spontaneity as, 52 nature, 146-7 Nazi Occupation, 31, 33-6, 37-8, 56-7, 62-3, 86-91, 88ni4, 89nzi; in Abielisk, 96; Belarusan resistance against, 89-90; casualties of, 86-7; in Kar'jer, 125-6; in Miortvym nie balic, 117; partisan movement vs., 85-90; in Sciuza, 151-4; in Voucaja zhraja, 98; in Znak Biady, 108, 109 Nazi police, 91-2. Nazi regime, 53, 64, 187, 226n23 negative characters, 52, 74 neighbours, no New Economic Policy (NEP), 12 newspaper articles, 5, 44, 157 "Nezahojnaja rana" (An everlasting wound), 5, 156 Nikalajeu, 40 "Novaja cyvilizacyja" (New civilization), 199 novellas, 48, 85ni, 226n2; Ablava, 136-9; Pastka, 112-14; Prakliataja vysynia, 81-4; U tumane, 132-6; Zdrada, 72-5 novels, 48, 85, in, 22ini, 226n2; Kar'jer, 122-32; set outside Belarus, 52; Sotnikaii, 67-72; Znak Biady, 105-11; within a novel, 116, 118 occupation. See Nazi occupation. okruzhentsy, 125 "Old Man Moves a Mountain" (Zi), 194-5, 2.01-2 optimistic tragedy, 133, 161, 193 Orthodox Church, 23, 198 Pachadzane (The pilgrims), 8, 193-204

257 Index

pain, 120-1 "Pahibiel zajca" (The death of a hare), 197 Pajsci i nie viarnucca (To go and not return), 101-4 Pakachaj miane, saldacik (Give me some of your loving, soldier boy), 183-6, 204 "Palitruk Kalamiec" (Political instructor Kalamiec), 191 "Palkavodziec," 149 Papou, in Treciaja rakieta, 57 parables, 48, 94, 115; major themes of, 202-4; in Pachadzane, 194-204; structure of, 194-6; history of, 195-6; classical vs religious, 195, 197; categories of, 195-6; publication of, 204 parody, 198 partisan movement, 67-9, 85-90, 133-5, 2.2.on33, 223n3o, partisan novels, 85-104; Voucaja zhraja,, 98-100; Pajsci i nie viarnucca, 101-4 passion for things or status, 157, 158 past, decisive role of, 106 Pasternak, Boris, 207-8, 210 Pastka (The Mousetrap), 112-14 patriotism, 151, 174 peasant characters, 106, 134-5, I 4 I ~3j 151, 153-4; in Sciuza, 143, 145-50; nineteenth-century literature revival and, 155; nostalgia for, 175 Pen, Jehuda, 26, 30, 2i6n2o PEN International, 8, 209 People's Artist of Belarus, 30, 31 "Perad kancom" (On the eve of liquidation), 158-9, 191 perestroika, 7, 37, 136, 141, 156, 174 personal qualities, 14-15 Petersburg circle, 51 Platonau, 99 plays, 167-71 pogroms, 88 Polatcyna, 40 polemic, 55, 115, 179 police, 20, 98; Belarusan, 86; in Kar'jer, 12.4-5; Nazi military, 88-9, 229nni9,

2,i; political, 2.4-5; secret, 30, 112-15, 185-6, 2,251116; in "Svajaki," 66; in U tumane, 135; in Voucaja zhraja political memoirs, 2,06 political police, 24-5 pollution, 21 Polymia (The flame: newspaper), 7, 157, 183 Poor Folks (Dostoevsky), 158, 165, 228n4