other quite well. Naturally, Motyleva turned to Evnina for aid and advice. Their conversation took place in the home of Motyleva in the presence of her mother, an old woman, doctor by profession, who fiercely insisted that it were not Tamara’s mistakes that were the cause, but her nationality. After all, Ania Elistratova, a fellow student of Tamara’s, was not being “worked over” by anyone. Tamara cut her mother short several times, returning to the main theme of the conversation. “I would like to limit it to a public censure rather than expulsion,” she would repeat. E.M. thought that there were no grounds even for public censure. They parted with the understanding that E.M. would defend this position.
However, the next day the party secretary of the IWL, Ivan Andreevich Martynov, called her to his office. At length and with great conviction he explained to her what great damage the scholar-cosmopolites were dealing the party by either intentionally or unintentionally praising bourgeois literature and art at the expense of our young Soviet culture. He cited examples garnered from instructional sessions at the Central Committee, shocked her with several criminal (from his point of view) positions and citations from Motyl-eva’s work. The point was that she was “debasing” our most great Russian
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writer, Leo Tolstoy, turning him over to the judgement of Western “pygmies.” And as Martynov spoke, E.M. sensed that her consciousness was being smothered by something alien, penetrating and mucilaginous, and that she no longer was capable or skillful enough to object. She could not recall his reasoning but remembered that he had convinced her. She came home totally demoralized and called Motyleva to say that the matter was much more complicated than she had thought, and that she could not do anything for her.
And several days later at a party meeting of the IWL an impressive performance was played out before us. The protagonist in the Motyleva case was A.F. Ivashchenko. With a theatrical gesture he would throw back a lock of hair from his, admittedly, high and handsome forehead and loudly read some “unacceptable” phrase from Motyleva’s dissertation, each time with the same refrain: “And this is being said by a Soviet scholar, a communist?!” “Shame!” Martynov would respond from the other end of the table. Then another phrase of Motyleva’s would be read followed by the same refrain: “And this is being said by a Communist?!” And again Martynov’s bass: “Unbelievable!!” “Shame!”
The whole assembly was shaken and struck dumb. No one objected and no one asked any questions. Those who performed mumbled something supporting the points presented by the protagonist. And our friend E.M. at Mar-tynov’s invitation stood up and like a parrot mouthed some stupid and empty words about “unacceptable” mistakes. Then we all voted to expel Motyleva from the party. We did it as if bewildered, even the most upright of us, even my Olga Kuznetsova, who now mercilessly excoriates herself for that unworthy act.
Many months later, after Motyleva had been reinstated in the party thanks to the intercession of Fadeev [a well-known writer] but not re-employed at the Institute, E.M. and I were at the first-run of some play. During the intermission we bumped into Motyleva and her mother. Tamara calmly greeted both of us without a shade of resentment. After all, she was a communist just as we were and had also voted for the expulsion of those “cosmopolites” whose cases preceded hers: Iakovlev, Kirpotin, Novich and others. But when Evnina proffered her hand to Motyleva’s mother, she demonstratively turned away, and I saw how the extended hand hung in the air. The old woman, not constrained by any party “norms,” would not forgive betrayal. E.M. moved away, shamed and abashed, having whispered to me, “Tamara’s mother is right.”
K. Vadot, The Terrorist
The act of denunciation was one of striking arbitrariness. Its encouragement and utilization, which saw a vast increase in the 1930’s, transcended all social and class categories. Families were destroyed by the denunciations of children who were then exalted by the state. Since the denunciations could be anonymous and vindictive (with only a hint of “crimes against the state” to trigger action by the authorities), they were yet another aspect of life in a totalitarian system over which the individual had no control. Vadot’s story deals with such a denunciation. Excerpted from K. Vadot, “V zhenskom rabochem lagere” [In a Women’s Labor Camp]. New York:
“Anna Timofeevna, now, Anna Timofeevna, please do stop crying. Now what’s really the matter? Don’t go killing yourself so. Calm down.”
“And how am I supposed to calm down when I find myself living in hell?”
“Straight to hell, just like that. Does that make us devils then?”
“No, you’re also unfortunate wretches. So then hell itself might actually be worse than this.”
“Well, don’t cry; better you should drink some tea. Look, the kettle’s already on the boil.”
“Thank you, girls, but I don’t want any tea. I’m going to die soon, anyway, so what’s the point of drinking tea?”
“You’ll get used to it. You won’t die. People aren’t cattle: we can get used to anything.”
“So, have you been here long?”
“It varies. I’m here eight years. That one over there, the young one, seven years; as for the others—no one has been here less than five years.”
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“But Aleksandra Ivanovna, sweetie, they gave me a whole twenty-five years, it scares me to even say it.”
“Yes, but that twenty-five years is your whole term. And we’ve all got the full bobbin: twenty-five years. I’m just talking about how much time we’ve already done.”
“Holy Jesus . . . It’s terrible to think about it.”
“It’s nothing; we can bear it. Better you should drink tea. It’s sweet.”
This conversation took place in one of the barracks of the women’s camp at Vorkuta. Aleksandra Ivanovna was pouring tea into half-liter jars, and Anna Timofeevna, on whom the brand-new camp uniform still fit awkwardly, sat at a table in the middle of the barracks, along with Masha—a girl with long braids wrapped around her head, Ania—a woman of about thirty with cold eyes, and Aleksandra Ivanovna.
“Go ahead, Anna Timofeevna, I’ll just splash some in a little jar for you,” Masha says tenderly.
Anna Timofeevna is a small, plump woman of about fifty years. Her eyes are frightened, wary.
“Thank you kindly, little daughter. You were right. Tea is good for the nerves. And it warms you up well. While they were bringing me here, I froze like a dog.”
“Now, if you want to freeze, you just wait a little. The month of March— we consider that warm. We call it spring. You wait and see—you’ll change your tune come December.”
“What kind of spring is this, Anechka, thirty degrees below. I’m used to Rostov.”
“We were all used to it. It doesn’t matter—with the years and the intense cold you’ll get used to
