Marvin Kalb - The Year I Was Peter the Great - 1956 - Khrushchev, Stalin's Ghost, and a Young American in Russia

The chief librarian smiled skeptically. “Why would anyone want to do research on Uvarov? He was a reactionary.” I agreed, yes, he was a “conservative” but an interesting subject nonetheless, and no one else was writing about him.

“Why don’t you write about Lenin?” she asked. “He’s much more interesting. He’s a progressive.”

I answered, “Everybody is writing about Lenin, but no one is writing about Uvarov.” I smiled, trying to be both serious and charming. The chief librarian shook her head in bewilderment, conferred briefly with her colleagues, and then, much to my surprise and delight, said simply “ Khorosho ,” “Okay,” and led me into a large reading room, where she pointed to a desk and a card catalog. “Look through it, and tell me what you want.”

I was astonished. One hour after arriving at the Historical Library, I was given a pass and access to several interesting studies of Uvarov. All were secondary sources, but I was actually doing research in Moscow—I had broken the ice. I was to learn in time that not every Soviet library, and certainly not the Central State Archives, would similarly open its doors to a non-Russian student of Uvarov, but I had taken one big step toward my twin goals of doing research on Uvarov while working at the JPRS—and for the moment that was good enough. My mother would be pleased.

One foreign correspondent who had worked in Moscow for many years told me the next day that I was the first foreigner allowed to do research in the Historical Library. Ever. True or not, I was positive I had one person to thank: that person who had delivered the secret speech and launched the year of the thaw.

A day or two later, encouraged by my victory at the Historical Library, I decided to take my next step and go to the official office that registered all deaths in Moscow. I knew that Uvarov had died in Moscow in 1855. Where was he buried? Was there a plaque? What did it say? This was basic information; naively, I expected no problem in obtaining it. An old woman sitting near the entrance to the gloomy building, apparently a docent of the bureau, said she knew nothing about a burial site in Moscow but did know of a monument to his memory in Leningrad. Indeed, she added, even where he lived in Leningrad—that is, “if the house is still standing.” The docent seemed unable or unwilling to go further.

Undeterred, I decided on the spot to go directly to the State Museum, a large, oddly shaped red-brick building at the opposite end of Red Square from St. Basil’s Cathedral, looking for all the world as if it had been mistakenly plopped there by a distracted architect. It contained, I was told, the prerevolutionary archives of Russian aristocrats, among many other things. Maybe I’d have better luck there. And for a brief time I thought I had.

Another very old woman was in charge of the “historical division.” How interesting, that—in Moscow, so many museums, staffed by so many old women! Unlike many of the other female staff, though, this one was gentle, neatly dressed, and, to a degree, cooperative. When I told her about Uvarov, she directed me with no apparent hesitation to Hall 30. Hurriedly I went to Hall 30 and there it was, a document with Uvarov’s famous formula, “Nationalism, Autocracy, and Orthodoxy,” on a table under glass and surrounded by a small gaggle of giggling students.

“Uvarov?” one asked. “Who’s he?”

The others shrugged with obvious indifference. It was clear they had never heard of Uvarov, though he was a leader of the nineteenth-century conservative movement. Nevertheless, I was delighted. For the first time I was getting close to my subject. Here was his famous formula, and I was able to read it and take notes. Guards stood near the doors but did nothing.

I walked back to the old woman near the entryway. “That was really wonderful,” I said with excitement. “But would it now be possible to see all of Uvarov’s papers, his letters, everything?” She shook her head and explained that although she would like to help me, she had no authority to do so. Only the uchenyi sekretar (learned or academic assistant) could help. I went directly to her office. She too was surprisingly friendly, saying she had a great deal of material on Uvarov’s son, an outstanding Russian archeologist, but little on Uvarov himself. I expressed my disappointment, but we got on so well she promised she would do “everything in my power” to get me admitted to the state archives. There, she was certain, I’d find Uvarov’s papers.

Two days later I was back at the State Museum, hoping her “power” had been pervasive enough to produce miracles in the Soviet bureaucracy. The uchenyi sekretar was again friendly but her message was decidedly discouraging. She had tried, she said, but had failed. She could do nothing more on her own, and she recommended I try… the Historical Library.

“I’ve been to the Historical Library,” I said. “Indeed I have a pass and a desk there.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You have a desk at the Historical Library? Well then”—she smiled—“why come here?”

I explained that I needed primary source material, that the Historical Library had provided me with books and articles but nothing original—and that for a Ph.D. I needed primary sources. “I want to see his letters, his papers, his home,” I pleaded. “I want to see Uvarov firsthand.” The uchenyi sekretar had a good heart. She wanted to help, but since I had already been to the Historical Library, she suggested with apparent reluctance that I visit the Central State Archives, which were then under the control of the the dreaded Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVD), the secret police. As she led me to the exit she offered her best wishes, adding with a smile, “Maybe your friend Khrushchev can get you in.”

It was not too wild an idea. The respected journal Party Life had only recently run an editorial calling for “unveiling the dusty shelves of the state archives to the clean light of scholarship.” Could the editorial have meant that even a renegade communist such as Leon Trotsky could now get a fair hearing? Moreover, at the 20th Party Congress the education minister, Anna Pankratova, echoing a line from Khrushchev’s opening speech, had appealed for a rewriting of Soviet history based on fact. What a splendid idea, I thought. Could even Uvarov be far behind?

One day after work I set out for the Central State Archives on Bolshaya Pirogovskaya Ulitsa. No building in Moscow could have looked more Soviet, more a reflection of Stalin’s tasteless feel for modern-day architecture. It was huge, gray, and intimidating. As I wrote in my diary that night, “I [might] have appeared brave and self-confident as I opened the heavy metal door and strode quickly to the main desk, but my stomach was doing strange somersaults. I was plain frightened.”

The guard at the desk wanted to know the purpose of my visit. I told him about my desire to do research on Uvarov. He grinned, wickedly, I thought, before telling me that I was standing in the main lobby of the MVD. The Central State Archives were just around the corner. With pleasure I fled the MVD and headed for the archives, which were in the same building but approached through another entry.

A stern-looking guard wearing what appeared to be an MVD uniform asked the purpose of my visit. I explained, once again, that I wanted to do research for an Uvarov biography. My Russian was quite good by this time, but I did have an accent. The guard must have heard it but he said and did nothing about it. “You need a propusk ,” he advised, an ID card, “and you can get one over there.” He pointed to a large door about half a football field away. Up to this point, I felt, everything was proceeding smoothly, maybe too smoothly. I approached the propusk office. Another MVD guard asked the purpose of my visit, and, with patience and politeness, I informed him of my interest in Uvarov. He suggested I wait in a small dark room to his right. Ten minutes later a heavyset woman wearing thick glasses entered the room. She identified herself as an archivist. Like everyone else she wanted to know “the purpose of my visit.” I told her about Uvarov.