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

Throughout the war, when he was not practicing law Dudintsev read a great deal, developing a special fondness for such writers as James Joyce and Marcel Proust. After the war he plunged into a study of the Russian masters, especially Ukraine-born Nikolai Gogol, determined to learn enough to be able to write a book about some of the major themes of Soviet life. In 1952 he started to write Not by Bread Alone . He finished four years later, shortly after the 20th Party Congress concluded its work. I was told by a Russian friend that Dudintsev had great difficulty finding a publisher, perhaps because the book was considered too controversial. He went from one publisher to another. Each praised the book and predicted that it would be a great success “one day” but refused to accept responsibility for publishing it “now.”

In despair, Dudintsev turned to Konstantin Simonov, editor of the literary journal Novy Mir , or New World. Would Simonov publish Not by Bread Alone , perhaps in installments, dividing the 500-page novel into three parts? Surprisingly, Simonov said yes. In Moscow’s literary world, Simonov was known to be an old party hack, not in any way an editor of excitement or daring. So why did he publish the first part in the August edition, the second in September, and the third in October, thereby making an eye-catching literary statement? Because, Simonov later explained, he regarded Not by Bread Alone to be the literary equivalent of the 20th Party Congress: big, bold, and promising. By publishing it when others declined to do so, he would be seen as the fearless conquering hero of Moscow’s literary wars. His argument was that the 20th Party Congress condemned bureaucracy; so too did the book. The party congress favored initiative and drive; so too did the book. The party congress raised profound social and political questions; so too did this book.

When the first installment appeared, Not by Bread Alone was an overnight sensation. “Have you read this new book? Yes, by Dudintsev” was a commonly heard question among students at the Lenin Library. Among Russians literature has always enjoyed a special place. At that time, writers and poets, when reading their works, would attract huge crowds, numbered on occasion in the thousands. Was Dudintsev another Tolstoy? “No, of course not,” I kept hearing, but another major writer had clearly surfaced on the literary scene and, with him, his sweet, eccentric hero, the inventor Lopatkin.

Like millions of others in the Soviet proletariat, Lopatkin works in a factory, where after eight years of toiling alone he invents a new machine for the centrifugal casting of iron drain pipes. “A what?” many asked, before bursting into laughter. Here was a character out of Gogol’s imagination, so quirky and original, so much the loner, that he has never bothered to check with communist authorities—or with anyone, for that matter—on his road to the “centrifugal casting for iron drain pipes.” He has done it on his own. When Lopatkin finally unveils his invention to factory managers and party officials, they are at first delighted and then weirdly appalled. They accuse him of divulging state secrets and send him to an Arctic prison camp. Here, then, was a story, whimsical in its approach, rich in detail, touching in its portrayal of Lopatkin, that described the deadening effect of the Soviet system on the creative powers of a human being. The book left the reader with many questions about the wisdom of the Soviet state and the unbelievably sad experience of a Soviet inventor.

If Not by Bread Alone had been published immediately after Khrushchev’s anti-Stalin speech, it might have met a happier fate. But, published as it was in August, September, and October 1956, when Khrushchev was already facing powerful conservative pressures to scale back de-Stalinization, the book ran into an ugly and unavoidable buzz saw—which sealed its fate, at least for a time. Though many literary critics loved the book and hailed Dudintsev as a major writer, the Kremlin labeled it “unhealthy, tendentious, and noxious” and denounced Dudintsev as a writer who “one-sidedly and incorrectly understood the essence of party [read Khrushchev’s] criticism of Stalin’s ‘personality cult.’” On December 2 the government newspaper, Izvestia , blasted Dudintsev, echoing the criticism leveled by Khrushchev himself—that Dudintsev felt a “narcissistic joy in describing the negative side of Soviet life.” Obviously, in any battle between a writer and his boss in the Kremlin, the boss won. Dudintsev’s novel was not published in book form until late the following year, and then only in a limited print run. Dudintsev, the man and the writer, was the subject of frequent assaults in the Soviet press. He stopped writing. He lived alone. His colleagues no longer called.

And yet, his book continued to send waves of excitement and defiance through the literary and political worlds in Moscow. One sign was that copies of Novy Mir , where it had first appeared, were impossible to find. Months later students in the Lenin Library were still arguing about the book. Many wondered whether Molotov, as the new literary czar, was cleverly using the book as a weapon against Khrushchev. Just as important, the Communist Party felt the need to defend its attacks on Dudintsev publicly, as though its criticism was not being accepted by the people, especially young people.

On the evening of December 11, I happened to be present at one such defense in the Lenin Library. The talk, “Latest Tasks of Modern Soviet Literature,” was a serious party effort to ease student skepticism toward official criticism of Dudintsev. The speaker was identified in the announcement as a “literary critic of the Soviet Union” and a leading member of the Union of Writers. A tall man of supreme self-confidence, Grigory Brovman had a receding hairline accentuated by an already large forehead. He wore small, horned-rimmed glasses. His audience was not limited to students. Librarians, teachers, and professors also attended. This was a standing-room-only event. Everyone apparently wanted to hear Brovman, who announced strict guidelines for attending his lecture. No reading allowed! No talking allowed! “If you want to read, go outside now, before I start,” he bellowed. “If not, sit still and listen.” Literary critic Brovman was not to be messed with.

He began by admitting that much of his criticism might be wrong. “I shall try to be objective,” he stressed, “but you may not accept my analysis.” For several minutes he sounded not like a respected critic but rather like a party hack. He told a story about the year 1956 that might have been persuasive earlier but that now, after the Hungarian suppression, sounded stale. “A more objective approach to modern Soviet literature is the most outstanding feature of 1956,” he said. Ilf and Petrov, the legendary writers of popular tales, were again being published. So, too, was Ivan Bunin, who had incurred Stalin’s displeasure. The works of other writers who had been suppressed were again appearing in bookstores, especially those who were writing favorably about the “little person,” rather than the “big man,” so characteristic of an earlier time.

Then, as though building to a climax, Brovman proclaimed that the masses have again begun to be featured in novels, the proletariat again portrayed as the vanguard of the socialist movement. These were positive developments. In a loud voice, he added, “Those who continue to speak about old truths do not deserve our respect.” A happy ripple of excitement flowed through the audience. To my right, a student muttered with satisfaction, “Maybe he’s actually going to say something. Maybe he’s different.”

Brovman continued, hitting the same theme. “There have been many books published this year, comrades, which continue to echo old truths. These are bad books. One must regard literature as the expression of new, dynamic truths.” Much to my surprise, students around the room rose to their feet, clapping and smiling with joyful anticipation.