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

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Sasha, looking uncomfortable, answered, “To be completely truthful with you, I pay very little attention to politics.” He searched in my eyes for understanding. “Maybe that’s why I love your American poetry so much. Much of it is so light, so tender, so individual, so loving, that it lifts me from this world and carries me to a sweet and fragrant paradise.”

I asked, “Is ‘this world’ Russia and the ‘fragrant paradise’ America?”

Sasha apparently felt he could not be precise. But his English was so poetic that I often got lost in its beauty and missed a carefully nuanced political hint. He spoke often in flowing metaphors, quoting Sandburg and Frost by heart, and to strengthen his message, political or poetic, he would add a phrase from Aiken, always with a mysterious, faraway smile of satisfaction.

Hungary, though, was special. It brought Sasha back to politics, however reluctantly. “In recent time the only issue that made me raise my eyebrows,” he admitted, “was Hungary. The effects have reverberated not only through Russia but also throughout the world. It has made many of us think, think really hard, for the first time in many years. I think it has had as great an effect on the Russian intelligentsia”—Sasha smiled as he used this phrase—“as the death of Stalin.”

“Big words, Sasha, big words,” I said. “As big as the death of Stalin?”

Sasha nodded, adding, “The information we have of course is limited, but I think the government probably did the right thing.”

“The right thing?” His judgment left me momentarily speechless. How could a lover of American poetry condone his government’s brutality in Hungary?

“Sasha, forgive me, but you are very, very wrong.” I didn’t want to elaborate but I couldn’t stop. I wanted to “prove” to Sasha that he was wrong. “The facts about the Hungarian revolution are clear,” I said. “A majority of the people rose up against communism and against Russia. They did not want either. This might be hard for you to accept, but the Hungarian people will never accept communism or the presence of Russian troops in their country. They hate both. Just remove the troops, and you will see how quickly the people will remove the last vestiges of communism.” I reached for a summary thought: “In Eastern Europe communism rests on the bayonets of Red Army troops, and nothing more.”

Sasha objected. He said I was exaggerating the crisis in Hungary, that in time the people would accept both communism and the Red Army, and be grateful for both. “But you know,” he continued, “I think that even in the ugliness of the situation, there is still beauty. It is like Macaulay’s essay on revolution when he writes that the ugliness of revolution can yield beauty in the long run, and we must not be blinded by temporary darkness to the possibility of a bright future.”

“Sasha,” I said, “you are a romantic. Your quotes sound nice, but the facts demand another conclusion. The Hungarians do not want the Russians there—it is as simple as that. You cannot export revolution on a Red Army tank. Surely that is not orthodox communism.”

“No, it isn’t. But it is orthodox Bolshevism.”

His voice turned hard, almost confrontational, and I realized, as he did, that we had unintentionally allowed ourselves to slip into an argument. I apologized immediately—that was never my intent. But I could not understand Sasha’s defense of the Russian crackdown in Hungary. “How can you condone such brutality?” I asked.

“What else am I to do?” Sasha said. For a few minutes, he bent over the table, his head down, his elbows on his knees.

On only one issue was Sasha unabashedly critical of his government. He wanted more artistic exchanges between the Soviet Union and the West, especially the United States. “My friends want books from the West. They want artistic exchanges. They do not believe that artistic freedom should be constrained by communist doctrine.” His voice grew stronger as he continued. “We all feel that socialism is inevitable throughout the world. It is a law of history. It is inexorable. But at the same time we do not feel that art follows inexorable rules. We believe that socialist realism should be abolished as an artistic doctrine. It is harmful and restrictive.”

Sasha reached across the table and held my hands. “You simply cannot imagine,” he said, his eyes moist with emotion, “how happy we were this past summer, seeing so many foreigners in Russia, hearing and enjoying your great artists, like Isaac Stern, Jan Peerce, and the Boston Symphony Orchestra. We would like all of this to continue. We don’t want a change to the old days.” I reminded Sasha again of the tone of the lecture I had heard. “It looks to me like we are heading backwards, not forwards,” I said.

Sasha disagreed. “I think you are too pessimistic,” he said. “This won’t happen. This cannot happen.”

We had been talking for a long time. The waitresses were beginning to give us dirty looks. I suggested we go for a walk. Nevsky Prospekt was our destination. It was crowded and noisy. After a few blocks Sasha steered me toward a bus stop and we got on a bus. After a short ride he walked me to the front of the Astoria, but not into the lobby. He told me that he was grateful for the time we had spent together, and he promised to call me in a few days. I knew I had met a wonderful human being, a Russian I would like to call a friend, a Russian deserving of open borders and free exchanges. But I was left wondering whether he would call me in a few days, as he had promised.

Over the next few days, with my Russia clock quickly running out of time, I spent a great deal of my days at the Saltykov-Shchedrin Library and the Institute for Russian Literature, where I had been granted access to Uvarov’s papers. My immediate problem was no longer bureaucratic but just time: I had too little of it to finish the job, no matter how much effort I put into the task. I took notes on the many documents I read, but there were simply too many documents and not enough time. I had an idea. During one break for tea and dark bread, I asked the uchenyi sekretar if I could microfilm the documents, letters, and papers I would not have the time to read during my stay in Leningrad. After finishing my research I would give the microfilm to Harvard’s Widener Library as the opening of an exchange of scholarly data and documents between the Soviet Union and the United States.

His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He loved the idea, but neither of us had the authority to consummate any such deal. And we knew it. The uchenyi sekretar proposed instead that he would, on his own hook, microfilm the Uvarov papers I had before me, and I would then promise to deliver them to the Widener Library once I was finished with them. Not only was this an unorthodox proposal (Soviet officials, even uchenyi sekretary , did not negotiate on their own, and certainly not with foreign diplomats). It was also a very brave and generous act, considering the rigid, unyielding nature of the Soviet bureaucracy, especially when foreigners were involved.

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “That was very kind of you.” He laughed. “No one has ever shown an interest in Uvarov,” he said, “so I wanted to help, if I could.” We had a deal, sort of. Except for a little problem that we should have foreseen. We had both foolishly assumed that the library’s microfilm apparatus would be working, but like so many other pieces of modern technology in Russia, that day it was “on remont”—being repaired. After a few telephone calls, the embarrassed uchenyi sekretar assured me that the microfilming of the Uvarov papers would be completed “tomorrow, late in the day.” His use of the word “tomorrow” left me limp with anxiety.