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“What are you cooking?”
“Carpenter’s glue broth.”
When the broth was ready, she began to eat. Of course, she did not offer me any. The tradition of offering food to your guests had long since vanished in Leningrad. In order to get food off my mind I asked a question. “Why is it so quiet here?”
“Some people have left, others have died. They’re lying about in every room.”
“Who?” I was confused.
“The corpses.”
“Why don’t they remove them?”
“Who? I told the concierge, but he said that they can lie there a long time without smelling, since it’s cold now.”
“Are you alone in this apartment?”
“There’s some guy living at the end of the hallway. Every night he tries to force my door. Probably wants to eat me . . . I sleep with a knife.”
She showed me a large chef’s knife which she pulled from beneath her pillow. We went to the institute, but there was almost nobody there, and nobody knew anything.
2 March 1942. Every day Irina and I go to the institute, so as not to miss the evacuation day. But so far, nothing is known.
9 March 1942. I dropped by [the old apartment on] Moscow Street to grab a few things for the trip. Wistfully, I walked through the rooms. Almost my whole life was spent here, but I’ll never live here again.
My gaze slipped along the bookcase: Bagritskii, Mandelshtam, Pasternak . . .
I chose one of the small volumes and leafed through the pages. Familiar lines came to life beneath my fingers. But they aroused nothing in me now except irritation. I snuffed the lines, slamming the book shut. Photographs tumbled out from somewhere. They fell in a fan-shape on the floor before me. The faces looking up from them seemed alien to me. Was that really me? Dima? Did we really have such fat mugs and smug, feckless eyes? A shiver ran up my spine. No, we would not have understood each other now.
I left the photographs lying on the floor.
29 March 1942. Upon arriving at the institute, we discovered that the convoy was to leave at six that evening. We had four hours to ourselves.
“Let’s run to a bakery and eat our rations to the end of the month,” Irina shouted.
After eating my portion right there at the counter, I ran home.
We went into a frenzy, feverishly stuffing things into sacks, afraid of being late. We had to get to the Finland [railway] Station on foot.
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For the trip I put on Galia’s [a neighbor] knickers from a wardrobe which stood in our room. After all, I couldn’t go with my knees showing. Having put them on, I recalled how indignant I had been quite recently when Dima took a pair of pants that weren’t his. And now I was doing exactly the same thing. The concept of honor had become an empty sound for us.
Finally we left. Left like swine, not saying farewell to our hosts and leaving our room in chaos and filth.
The sky was covered with clouds. One could see the outline of the sun wandering behind them, searching for an opening. Having found one, it would pour onto the street in streams of bright light. The snow would turn to slush; the sled would get stuck. Sometimes it would turn over, spilling all our “junk” along the road.
We’d fuss over it, angry, accusing each other. Finally, all in a lather, we arrived at the station. Irina was already there.
“Come quick. They’re going to feed us,” she said in agitation.
We were given two serving spoons of millet porridge with butter and a hunk of bread. With his plate in his hands, Dima ran around the tables looking for a seat. His frighteningly agitated face was covered with blue streaks. I gave him my chair and ate standing. Having finished the porridge, we scrupulously licked the plates clean. The next feeding was to take place only on the other side of Lake Ladoga.
N. Ianevich, Literary Politics
The chapter of Ianevich’s memoirs from which this selection is taken deals with the Institute of World Literature from the 1930’s through the 1970’s. The selection discloses the intense politicization within the institute during World War II and after as well as the many internal vagaries aggravated by the war. The author’s introspection reveals her intimate knowledge of the workings of this prestigious institute. She notes that she had been employed there practically from its very founding. Originally published as “Institut Mirovoi Liter-atury v 1930- e–1970-e gody” [The Institute of World Literature from the 1930’s to the 1970’s] in
The first months of the war were horrific. The Germans were rushing toward Moscow. Every night our colleagues stood watch on the roof of our Gorky Museum tossing off incendiary flares. The capital was being evacuated. Children, old people, priceless museum items, paintings and finally whole offices and institutions were moved out. Leonid Ippolitovich Pono-marev, our director, waited in vain for specific directives from his superiors at the Academy and complained that they were more likely concerned with their own safety than with the safety of the institutes. He was confused and overwhelmed by the sudden responsibility for the destiny of the staff and the institute itself. He clearly needed the help of youthful and energetic people. Acting on our own initiative we decided to help him.
In the course of two or three weeks several of our active women organized the evacuation of women with small children as well as of the ill and aged family members of our co-workers. They launched a furious attack on the Presidium of the Academy of Sciences until they received the necessary evacuation authorizations and destination. Then the institute received a directive
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