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involvement, no one could be expected to see that entry into World War I was through the gates of doom.
Nickolas Lupinin
1. Anna Geifman,
Viktor Chernov, Idylls on the Volga
Viktor Chernov is best known for an intense political activism. While yet a teenager in the 1880’s, he committed himself to the revolutionary cause and was a hunted man by the 1890’s. A man of great independence, he nevertheless became a member of the SR’s (Social Revolutionaries), a party he was later to head. Strong pro- peasant and terroristic policies were hallmarks of the SR’s and Chernov was notoriously indefatigable in the pursuit of both. The Bolshevik victory in 1917 did not prove to be the answer and he ultimately had to flee Russia. The selection below describes a boy coming of age and hardly hints at the future terrorist. One could say that Chernov lived many lives, from the Volga region of his birth to his death in New York in 1952. This excerpt is from Chernov’s
I was born amidst the boundless steppes beyond the Volga in the town of Novouzensk, Samara Province, but spent my childhood, boyhood and callow youth in the town of Kamyshin on the broad expanse of the Volga River. Kamyshin lay on the right bank of the Volga where the now-shallow Kamyshinka flows into it. But in the memory of the old-timers the shallow river was once a broad watery expanse covered by thickets of bulrushes. Back in those times, small flotillas of daring river pirates would hide there seeking refuge and freedom in the Volga wilderness from the burdens and laws of the Tsarist regime. They were constantly at war with the world which they had rejected. They would wait in ambush for lone commercial vessels or for whole fleets and shoot out like an arrow into the fast mid-stream while startling the waters with their local, non-Russian, shout: “Saryn’ na kichu” (come
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out on the stern), which was a demand for immediate surrender to the mercy of the attackers.
Some of the old-timers would mix fact with folklore and even point out the favorite hide-outs of legendary pirates Vas’ka Chaloi, Erem Kosolap, and Kuz’ma Shaloput. But to the west of Kamyshin there indisputably was a huge fortress mound in the shape of a radically truncated pyramid with a flat and rather broad top. It stood out in its protruding loneliness amidst the flatness of the surrounding steppe. Local tradition tied it to the name of Sten’ka Razin [an 18th-century rebel], but it had to be much older. For a long time, visiting archeologists wanted to excavate it, but it never went further than talk.
Important sounding and authoritative words poured from such talk—Khazars, Cuman, and Uzzes. It seemed that these ancient names created a greater impression on the eavesdropping children than they had on their busy elders. The whistling sound of the name Uzzes had a magical impression on us. We imagined them as riders fused with their steeds, men who were almost centaurs. We loved playing at being Uzzes, clambering on to unharnessed horses with the help of hostlers as they led them to the Volga to drink and bathe. We enjoyed whooping wildly as we imagined our docile quadrupeds to be wild ponies of the steppe.
Listening in on the conversations of elders was one of my greatest pleasures. I would have given a great deal to be present at the lessons of my older sisters. But I was gently shooed away because no one believed that I could diligently sit though the lessons without interrupting. Then I resorted to a trick. Long before the lessons would begin, I would penetrate the revered room whose secrets were kept from me, hide under the long and broad table and sit there for hours, not ever coughing, sneezing, or budging. It turned out that I had a rare memory, something akin to perfect pitch in music. Soon, I, unable to read, would memorize almost everything that was taught to my older siblings, especially poetry, so that I was able to correct and prompt my sisters whenever they stumbled. Once, filled to overflowing with all this content, I could not control my excitement and openly entered the competition with my sisters when they were forced to show off their learning at a family gathering. My success was the greatest, but the general consternation was even greater: where did an illiterate child get all this, to the point of memorizing long poems by Pushkin? I could not provide a satisfactory answer. Then they began noticing that I would disappear during lessons and, guessing correctly, extracted me from underneath the table with great triumph and laughter. At that point, I was permitted to attend lessons, but silently and with decorum. After that my zeal cooled considerably. The forbidden fruit had been sweeter.
I grew up largely as an unsupervised, enterprising Huckleberry Finn. A boat, a pair of oars, and several fishing poles were my charter to freedom. I would
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stop by the kitchen for an old pot, a hunk of bread, two or three onions, as many potatoes as possible, and, most important but easily forgotten, a small packet of salt. I would catch all the fish I wanted, giving myself over to the task with a rare fanaticism and, at times, imagining that I had no equal in it. My chowder would cook up rich and thick; the fire would crackle merrily under the pot, and the potatoes baked in its embers were the sweetest of all victuals.
But if the fish were really biting, I would forget all about eating, and bring home all my plain ingredients. My vanity consisted in catching large fish in places where everyone was satisfied with small fry. I had become thoroughly knowledgeable in the ways of all the local fish and knew from the motion of the bobber whether I was dealing with a greedy perch, a slow tench, a lazy and imposing bream, or a powerful and persistent carp. In order to get to my beloved spots in time for the best fishing, I would leave long before the rising of the sun. Once there, hidden in the cattails and bulrushes, I would witness nature—untouched by humans and trusting—perform its mystery of awakening. Light as a ballerina, barely touching the lily pads, a snipe would race by. Once, having been clever enough to catch it, I discovered its secret: it was almost bodiless, almost pure down and feathers. Then a cautious duck would swim out followed by its scurrying young brood. On shore, they would be ravenously watched
