Low life in Russian churchyard

Press, 7 December 1988, Page 23

Low life in Russian churchyard

IN MOSCOW

Patricia Legras

Where are the new Soviet writers? Once all the works are printed that have been gathering dust on the censor’s shelves for decades, who will take over? A Moscow critic said recently that it would need a whole generation before new talent would appear.

But the outlook is perhaps not as bleak as all that. A few writers in their 70s, whose manuscripts have been waiting for a mere 10 years, are filling the gap. And they are still writing. Their memories do not date back to Stalin’s times, but to Khrushchev and Brezhnev.

Sergei Kaledin is one of these. His short story, “A Humble Graveyard,” refused by all the Soviet monthlies during the “period of stagnation” was finally printed in "Novy Mir” last year. A story of the low life surrounding grave-digging, with drunks and mafiosi as the main characters, and set in a churchyard — it was hardly “suitable” material when he first wrote it.

Sergei is proud to show off a thick dossier of letters from many of the best known editors, praising his work, but refusing nonetheless to print it. He was taken completely by surprise when Sergei Zolygin, the editor of “Novy Mir” telephoned him one day last year to ask whether he still had “that manuscript” about a graveyard in his drawers. Since then he has not had time to think. He has brought out a book of short stories called “Corridor” about life in a communal flat. “A Humble Graveyard” will be printed in translation in Britain and France this winter; a stage adaptation is being performed this season in Moscow, and a film is in the final stages of being shot. The director found a cramped artist’s studio in a crumbling old house near an equally crumbling church, which he borrowed for their set. A threadbare carpet hanging on the wall, a table laid with pickled herring onions and vodka, plus a sofa, furnish the r °Seraei who is adviser for the fiim S was not happy with the acting of the main character. "You’re drunk, you have to Jress the bottle ... take your

time, don’t drink too quickly, that bottle is the centre of your life.”

A big strong man, Sergei wrote his story from his own experiences. While he was studying for a diploma as a literary critic, he

found a part-time job in a Moscow cemetery. He dug graves, cleared snow, tidied up old wreaths and dead flowers — and he watched and listened to his companions. He learnt to speak their jargon, which he reproduces in his book, and saw them lapse into drunken stupor.

But his studies were not successful. His mother, a translator and member of the writers’ union, decided to take him in hand. She put a hundred sheets of paper on his table, and refused to let him out of the flat until he had filled them. “What shall I write about — I’ve only worked in a cemetery?” So Sergei wrote about his cemetery. It took him a month. His mother approved of it, and he dedicated it to her. His professor thought it was “superb.” But it took almost 10 years to publish it. Even now, under the perestroika of Mikhail Gorbachev,

when the censorship of “Glavlit” is no longer supposed to exist, there are still hurdles to overcome. There remain three sensitive areas: pornography, incitation to violence, and military secrets.

Sergei Kaledin has chosen to write about his military service in his next short story, which was supposed to appear in the October issue of “Novy Mir.” The proofs were ready, with “Stroibat” as the leading article — named after the battalions of conscripts who are sent into the wilderness to help develop the country by building and digging. But authorisations from the military are missing: an official letter to Sergei Zolygin, of "Novy Mir” admitted that no military secrets were betrayed, but noted that it would be “inadvisable” to go into print. The whole edition, which is pulled out at over a million copies, had to be changed.

The proofs are now again ready for “Novy Mir” “I never even saw a machine gun’ ... I was just digging earth in a village in Siberia,” says Sergei. However, he is an optimist, and is trying to turn his attention to his next work. “I’m no intellectual,” he laughs. “I can only write about my own experiences.” then he becomes pensive. “I’m nearly forty years old, and I’ve written almost everything I know. And then what?” His next story could also be connected with the Orthodox Church — although Sergei

swears he is not a believer, and is a quarter Jewish. A born storyteller, he describes meeting an old "babushka” on the platform of a village station, carrying her kettle for hot water to make tea on the journey. She explains to him, crying and crossing herself, that there is no-one to look after the village church, and winter is coming. She is too old to carry coal to heat the building, and the frescoes are damp and falling off the walls. “You are young; do you know someone who is serious, doesn’t drink ... ?” Taking pity, he agrees to spend the winter out there, clearing snow, carrying coal, guarding the church. The priest comes once a week for a service.

One night, Vera Broisovna knocks frantically at his door. A candle has been left burning before the altar — the church could go up in flames. They unlock the door and reach the iconostasis. Vera Vorisovna suddenly stops Sergei. “Are you baptised?” He has to tell the truth. “God help us ... and you have been reading the holy scriptures, too.” Neither of them can penetrate behind the iconostasis: he is unbaptised and she is a woman. They sit up all night together in the church drinking tea, until the candle finally burns itself out. “My books are about ordinary people. ‘A Humble Graveyard’ dealt with death. It comes to all of us .ii. everyone is concerned. I like to describe people who think they are living simple, nonexotic lives ... but when you look at the details, they become interesting.”