FanFic [The Archipelago]
Title: The Archipelago
Author: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn with slight mentions of America. Russia/America if you squint, very very very hard.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Lots and lots of quotes that were meant to give mood but probably just take up space.
Summary: The first time Russia reads The Gulag Archipelago, he can't keep himself from crying.
Made for wizzard890’s reverse request meme.
Here is a riddle not for us contemporaries to figure out: Why is Germany allowed to punish its evildoers and Russia is not? What kind of disastrous path lies ahead of us if we do not have the chance to purge ourselves of that putrefaction rotting inside our body? What, then, can Russia teach the world?
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
It is 5 am, and Russia has not slept. It is 5 am in February of the year 1974 and Russia has 146 more pages before he will be finished with this foul piece of literature; this “experiment in literary investigation.”
He started at 8 am the previous morning, and expects to finish around 6:30. Russia is aware he should not be reading this. Knows that there will be consequences for the reading of this manuscript, but he doesn’t care. A part of him thinks that what will happen is well deserved. For the horrible things this writer says. For how the rest of the world will view Russia from now on, (No, keep it secret. Never let them know. Not Germany. Not China. Not Japan. Not France. Not England. Not America! No one! Never. It’s filthy and dirty. Don’t let them see yourself! Keep it secret. They can never know. Keep yourself to the shadows, stay well hidden. Keep it secret!) for the pit in his stomach that has not left since touching these cursed papers. For the tears that cannot seem to stop flowing.
Russia hates it. Russia loves it. Russia is infatuated with it. Russia is livid about it. But most of all Russia knows that he needs it, and that he cannot have it. More than anything, he needs to be honest, to be able to think badly of the things he’s done, and not be shushed or silenced. Simply to have the ability to look back and say softly to himself, “I was wrong.” Russia is sure it’s the only way for things to change,
He knows it is for him; this hateful, destructive, vicious, cruel love letter is for Russia. It will reach the others, but it is for Russia to read and to weep over, and to wallow in self hate and misery, and he has. And he has not, and cannot stop. (Stop and look at this horrible monster as he weeps because he did nothing and continues to do nothing; oh how pitiable a thing.)
He’s dirtying up the manuscript with his sloppy tears, (and this needs to be saved. His people need it, his government needs it. Russia needs it.) but he cannot stop. Russia keeps going.
Because in 3 hours this manuscript will be gone, and he will never see it again. The pain will still be there - he prays for a day it will not, but knows it will not come, the people are still dying - but the paper in front of him spelling out how horrible, how wrong, how unforgiving, how much of an ungrateful wretched thing he has become; that will be gone, forever. The reality will remain, but pages will not.
Never again will he wail and cry over this tattered and worn manuscript that so many of his people have already devoured.
It makes him happy and sad; dirty and clean all at the same time. And Russia needs this, more than anything, he knows he needs this. So he won’t stop his reading.
When the officials come back in the morning they will rip it from his fingers, - he took it from then when they were not looking - and it will be lost forever.
So Russia keeps reading, and will keep reading until it is out of his grasp for all eternity.
Yes, so-and-so many millions did get mowed down - but no one was to blame for it. And if someone pipes up: “What about those who…” the answer comes from all sides, reproachfully and amicably at first: “What are you talking about comrade! Why open old wounds?” Then they go after you with an oaken club: “Shut up! Haven’t you had enough yet? You think you’ve been rehabilitated!”
In that same period, by 1966, eighty-six thousand Nazi criminals had been convicted in West Germany. And still we choke with anger here. We do not hesitate to devote to the subject page after newspaper page and hour and hour of radio time. We even stay after work to attend protest meetings and vote: ”Too few! Eighty-six thousand are too few. And twenty years is too little! It must go on and on.”
And during the same period, in our own country (according to the reports of the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court) about ten men have been convicted.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
At 9 am on the 13th of February, 1974 (an hour later then they should have arrived! He got another hour with it!). They show up and the deed is done. The manuscript is gone and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn is on a train to West Germany.
There is nothing more to be said on the matter.
There are a few more copies floating around, Russia expects them to the gathered up soon and disposed of.
The thought is comforting in its familiarity - the press has been suppressed so long that it is normal to him now - and unwavering in its enormity - he will never see it again. (Never ever will it be yours. Reject it, just like every other piece of trash that has spelled out your wrongs. It is not your fault, the man is simply insane. He does not realize all that the Motherland has done for him. The prison system can’t work for everyone. Just toss him out and don’t let him back in. You’ll never hear of him again, this horrible traitor, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.)
What is the right course of action if our mother has sold us to the gypsies? No, even worse, thrown us to the dogs? Does she really remain our mother? If a wife has become a whore, are we really still bound to her in fidelity? A Motherland that betrays its soldiers - is that really a Motherland?
-Aleksander Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
It is years later that Russia learns that Solzhenitsyn is in America. He finds it fitting that the writer finds himself in such a place and can’t seem to shove down the bitterness. Its fine - he thinks - America will house him and keep him warm in those temperate climates of his, and allow the man to say whatever the hell he damn well pleases.
It is only because America is callous and unfeeling.
Russia knows it isn’t so, but the thought makes him feel better about the whole situation, so he forces himself to believe it. Not everyone can take such criticism and do nothing as America can.
Russia is not as thick skinned.
Sometimes we try to lie but our tongue will not allow us to. These people were labeled traitors, but a remarkable slip of the tongue occurred - on the part of the judges, prosecutors, and interrogators…They intended to declare them “traitors to the Motherland.” But they were universally referred to, in speech and in writing, even in the court documents as “traitors of the Motherland.”
You said it! They were not traitors to her. They were her traitors. It was not they, the unfortunates, who had betrayed the Motherland, but their calculating Motherland who had betrayed them,
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
When everything falls down around him, Russia is strangely happy.
It hurts, but it is more accurate to say that he hasn’t stopped hurting in one form or another since this whole business began in 1918 (He still won’t condemn Lenin. Stalin he can offer to history as a monster that killed his people mercilessly because there is no way to hide that, he still has the scars. But Lenin is still his. He can still have that no matter what anyone says or thinks), so Russia doesn’t see much difference.
He feels like an addict that is being promised a full recovery in the blink of an eye, it sounds too good to be true and it is. He’s suffered through these past few years without communism, without a truly steady government, and he feels weaker then he has in a long time. It doesn’t hurt as much, but he is physically frail and mentally drained. Some days he isn’t sure which was better for him, but today is a good day, so he is happy nonetheless.
It is on this day in 1994 that Russia stands, waiting at a train station for a man he never thought he’d see again.
It is well past the time that he held those tattered papers and devoured them whole in the span of 25 hours, and it is well past the time that those papers have been necessary .The cat is already out of the bag. He was a monster and the world now knows it a million times over.
Russia can weep and sob as much as he would like, but nothing is going to change, the past never does and he’s tired of it all. Russia is ready for a new start, and hopes that eventually it really will take hold and he won’t be so listless.
Despite everything that has happened he waits at the train station, for a person he needed once upon a time. For a person that has never met him, but seems to knows him so well.
By an unexpected turn of our history, a bit of the truth, an insignificant part of the whole, was allowed out in the open. But those same hands which once screwed tight our handcuffs now hold out their palms in reconciliation: “No, don’t! Don’t dig up the past! Dwell on the past and you’ll lose an eye.”
But the proverb goes on to say: “Forget the past and you’ll lose both eyes.”
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Preface of The Gulag Archipelago
When the train eventually does pull into the station, Russia knows the man at a glance. He is still ugly, worn and hairy with a distinct lack of facial expressions, but it is him, none the less. A part of Russia is happy that America has not changed this hardened Russian.
Russia moves from his spot and goes to meet the writer and his wife as they exit the train and speaks softly, but kindly to them in Russian.
“Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, it is my pleasure to welcome you back to Russia. My name is Ivan Braginski, and I will be escorting you to your new home.”
Dark eyes turn to Russia and look over him from that worn face with something that can’t quite be discerned.
“Ivan” Solzhenitsyn tries it on his lips “It is a good name. A good, Russian name.”
His Russian is still flawless, and Russia fills with pride as he leads the pair to the car prepared for them.
It is unthinkable in the twentieth century to fail to distinguish between what constitutes as abominable atrocity that must be prosecuted and what constitutes that “past” which “ought not be stirred up.”
We have to condemn publicly the very idea that some people have the right to repress others. In keeping silent about evil, in burring it so deep within us that no sign of it appears on the surface, we are implanting it, and it will rise up a thousandfold in the future.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
Once they reach the dacha, Solzhenitsyn invites Russia inside and is happy to see that the bar area is already filled with vodka. Russia made sure of that himself, but isn’t willing to admit it. The two sit down on a pair of very comfortable chairs and have a drink.
There is silence at first, because neither knows exactly what to say, but eventually it is the writer that speaks.
“So, Ivan, have you ever been outside of Russia before?”
The question is an opener, and Russia isn’t sure where it will go and isn’t even sure he will like where it will lead, but is willing to find out.
“Yes, I have traveled to many places on business.”
“Then why do you still reside here young man? The winters are cold, the summers are short and things are only going to get worse in this country until someone is willing to put in the work required to clean up this mess.”
The response is on his lips before Solzhenitsyn has a chance to inhale his next breath.
“Because this is where I belong.”
Solzhenitsyn does not smile, but there is something in his eyes that shines and sparkles.
“Strait to the heart of the matter I see. I believe you to be right. Russia is where I belong as well.”
Russia thinks that Solzhenitsyn knew that’s what he wanted to hear all along, but he doesn’t show the unbridled pride that swells in his chest, and Russia won’t allow himself to believe it just yet.
“But you have been in America for so long, surely that country has served you well. More so then Russia has ever done. This is my place, but you are free as a bird, well able to be elsewhere.”
You gave your life in servitude to me, but I threw you in prison for nothing; stole eleven years of your life. Then when you spoke of the matter you were raised onto a pedestal before the legs were mercilessly cut from under you. And then finally, I discarded you. Like a piece of trash that I never had any interest in seeing again.
It isn’t said, but both know what the statement implies.
Solzhenitsyn takes a shallow breath before continuing.
“America has been kind to this old Russian, but this is home. My homeland is something I could never forsake. It is because she needed me that I came to her in my writing. And when the government would not allow it, I forced my work through anyway. It was for this marvelous country in her time of need, and if this old traitor of the Motherland can help her, then I will do just that.”
The old man pauses and takes a drink from his glass before continuing.
“The future rests on the young now, my day is past. But I can still be of use here. I will spend my time writing and giving the occasional speech, bolstering the new generation in ways that they themselves swill never have to experience. Look towards the future young Ivan. For the future is yours, and it is the job of us, the generation that has passed to make sure that you do not fall for the same pitfall that we did so willingly.”
It strikes Russia at that moment that he was wrong. He needed this writer then, and perhaps he still needs this old weathered man now.
Without any regard for his earlier inhibitions and the two talk late into the evening. About Lenin (they do not agree, but it is fine), about Stalin, about the Gulag (Russia is even allowed to see those cloth numbers), about the current politics. America even comes up, and Russia finds that conversation just as enjoyable despite its content.
When Russia does actually depart, it is very late and Solzhenitsyn leads him out of the door before asking Russia to wait a few minutes as he doubles back into the house. The nation waits for a while, enjoying the cold crisp air before the writer emerges, a large stack of papers in hand. A feeling of excitement surges through Russia as he is handed the pages.
“It is what I have been working on. I would like you to read it and give me your opinions. Tell me if it is the babbling of an old man, or something worth publishing.”
Russia agrees and excuses himself, the manuscript held tightly in his hands.
The nation is tired when he reaches his home, but there is nothing for it. A work of Solzhenitsyn’s is meant to be read hurriedly, and despite the World Meeting tomorrow, Russia intends to be finished as soon as possible. So he doesn’t sleep, he just reads well into the night.
When he is finished at around 8 am, he is reassured of his revelation. Oh yes, Russia still need this old man, more so then he ever realized.
If it were possible for any nation to fathom another people’s bitter experience through a book, how much easier its future fate would become and how many calamities and mistakes it could avoid. But it is very difficult. There always is this fallacious belief: “It would not be the same here; here such things are impossible.”
Alas, all evil of the twentieth century is possible everywhere on earth.
Yet I have not given up all hope that human beings and nations may be able, in spite of all, to learn from the experience of other people without having to live through it personally.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Introduction to the Abridgment of The Gulag Archipelago
Notes: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was once a military officer in WWII, but was arrested for some minuscule reason (I think he knew someone who knew how the speak German well, I can't remember exactly.) and served his time in the Gulag for 11 years. After he was released, with Khrushchev's approval, his first book in Russia, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich was published. It was a satirical piece about the Gulag labor camps and left nothing to suspicion. It was dirty, ugly and most of all, realistic, something that Soviet literature at the time most definitely was not. He was an overnight sensation, and became very popular.
But when he started working on The Gulag Archipelago, a 3 volume set chronically as much historical and first person information he could gather about the Gulag, things went downhill quickly. The first draft was not approved and was scrapped by the Soviet Literary Club (I think this is what it’s called...), but Solzhenitsyn wouldn't take no for an answer and several copies of his manuscript were hand typed and distributed throughout Russia on the sly. His fame grew but once the Soviet got some solid information about it, he was exiled from Russia and his citizenship was revoked.
He lived in America for a while but returned after the fall of the Soviet Union once his citizenship was restored. Despite the fact that his books were highly satirical of the Soviet Union, Solzhenitsyn was most certainly a Russian nationalist. He was popular in America, but that fact seemed to set him apart on the American scene.
AN: Thank you for your time. Comments are lovely, if you enjoyed it or did not.
Author: Me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn with slight mentions of America. Russia/America if you squint, very very very hard.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Lots and lots of quotes that were meant to give mood but probably just take up space.
Summary: The first time Russia reads The Gulag Archipelago, he can't keep himself from crying.
Made for wizzard890’s reverse request meme.
Here is a riddle not for us contemporaries to figure out: Why is Germany allowed to punish its evildoers and Russia is not? What kind of disastrous path lies ahead of us if we do not have the chance to purge ourselves of that putrefaction rotting inside our body? What, then, can Russia teach the world?
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
It is 5 am, and Russia has not slept. It is 5 am in February of the year 1974 and Russia has 146 more pages before he will be finished with this foul piece of literature; this “experiment in literary investigation.”
He started at 8 am the previous morning, and expects to finish around 6:30. Russia is aware he should not be reading this. Knows that there will be consequences for the reading of this manuscript, but he doesn’t care. A part of him thinks that what will happen is well deserved. For the horrible things this writer says. For how the rest of the world will view Russia from now on, (No, keep it secret. Never let them know. Not Germany. Not China. Not Japan. Not France. Not England. Not America! No one! Never. It’s filthy and dirty. Don’t let them see yourself! Keep it secret. They can never know. Keep yourself to the shadows, stay well hidden. Keep it secret!) for the pit in his stomach that has not left since touching these cursed papers. For the tears that cannot seem to stop flowing.
Russia hates it. Russia loves it. Russia is infatuated with it. Russia is livid about it. But most of all Russia knows that he needs it, and that he cannot have it. More than anything, he needs to be honest, to be able to think badly of the things he’s done, and not be shushed or silenced. Simply to have the ability to look back and say softly to himself, “I was wrong.” Russia is sure it’s the only way for things to change,
He knows it is for him; this hateful, destructive, vicious, cruel love letter is for Russia. It will reach the others, but it is for Russia to read and to weep over, and to wallow in self hate and misery, and he has. And he has not, and cannot stop. (Stop and look at this horrible monster as he weeps because he did nothing and continues to do nothing; oh how pitiable a thing.)
He’s dirtying up the manuscript with his sloppy tears, (and this needs to be saved. His people need it, his government needs it. Russia needs it.) but he cannot stop. Russia keeps going.
Because in 3 hours this manuscript will be gone, and he will never see it again. The pain will still be there - he prays for a day it will not, but knows it will not come, the people are still dying - but the paper in front of him spelling out how horrible, how wrong, how unforgiving, how much of an ungrateful wretched thing he has become; that will be gone, forever. The reality will remain, but pages will not.
Never again will he wail and cry over this tattered and worn manuscript that so many of his people have already devoured.
It makes him happy and sad; dirty and clean all at the same time. And Russia needs this, more than anything, he knows he needs this. So he won’t stop his reading.
When the officials come back in the morning they will rip it from his fingers, - he took it from then when they were not looking - and it will be lost forever.
So Russia keeps reading, and will keep reading until it is out of his grasp for all eternity.
Yes, so-and-so many millions did get mowed down - but no one was to blame for it. And if someone pipes up: “What about those who…” the answer comes from all sides, reproachfully and amicably at first: “What are you talking about comrade! Why open old wounds?” Then they go after you with an oaken club: “Shut up! Haven’t you had enough yet? You think you’ve been rehabilitated!”
In that same period, by 1966, eighty-six thousand Nazi criminals had been convicted in West Germany. And still we choke with anger here. We do not hesitate to devote to the subject page after newspaper page and hour and hour of radio time. We even stay after work to attend protest meetings and vote: ”Too few! Eighty-six thousand are too few. And twenty years is too little! It must go on and on.”
And during the same period, in our own country (according to the reports of the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court) about ten men have been convicted.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
At 9 am on the 13th of February, 1974 (an hour later then they should have arrived! He got another hour with it!). They show up and the deed is done. The manuscript is gone and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn is on a train to West Germany.
There is nothing more to be said on the matter.
There are a few more copies floating around, Russia expects them to the gathered up soon and disposed of.
The thought is comforting in its familiarity - the press has been suppressed so long that it is normal to him now - and unwavering in its enormity - he will never see it again. (Never ever will it be yours. Reject it, just like every other piece of trash that has spelled out your wrongs. It is not your fault, the man is simply insane. He does not realize all that the Motherland has done for him. The prison system can’t work for everyone. Just toss him out and don’t let him back in. You’ll never hear of him again, this horrible traitor, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.)
What is the right course of action if our mother has sold us to the gypsies? No, even worse, thrown us to the dogs? Does she really remain our mother? If a wife has become a whore, are we really still bound to her in fidelity? A Motherland that betrays its soldiers - is that really a Motherland?
-Aleksander Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
It is years later that Russia learns that Solzhenitsyn is in America. He finds it fitting that the writer finds himself in such a place and can’t seem to shove down the bitterness. Its fine - he thinks - America will house him and keep him warm in those temperate climates of his, and allow the man to say whatever the hell he damn well pleases.
It is only because America is callous and unfeeling.
Russia knows it isn’t so, but the thought makes him feel better about the whole situation, so he forces himself to believe it. Not everyone can take such criticism and do nothing as America can.
Russia is not as thick skinned.
Sometimes we try to lie but our tongue will not allow us to. These people were labeled traitors, but a remarkable slip of the tongue occurred - on the part of the judges, prosecutors, and interrogators…They intended to declare them “traitors to the Motherland.” But they were universally referred to, in speech and in writing, even in the court documents as “traitors of the Motherland.”
You said it! They were not traitors to her. They were her traitors. It was not they, the unfortunates, who had betrayed the Motherland, but their calculating Motherland who had betrayed them,
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
When everything falls down around him, Russia is strangely happy.
It hurts, but it is more accurate to say that he hasn’t stopped hurting in one form or another since this whole business began in 1918 (He still won’t condemn Lenin. Stalin he can offer to history as a monster that killed his people mercilessly because there is no way to hide that, he still has the scars. But Lenin is still his. He can still have that no matter what anyone says or thinks), so Russia doesn’t see much difference.
He feels like an addict that is being promised a full recovery in the blink of an eye, it sounds too good to be true and it is. He’s suffered through these past few years without communism, without a truly steady government, and he feels weaker then he has in a long time. It doesn’t hurt as much, but he is physically frail and mentally drained. Some days he isn’t sure which was better for him, but today is a good day, so he is happy nonetheless.
It is on this day in 1994 that Russia stands, waiting at a train station for a man he never thought he’d see again.
It is well past the time that he held those tattered papers and devoured them whole in the span of 25 hours, and it is well past the time that those papers have been necessary .The cat is already out of the bag. He was a monster and the world now knows it a million times over.
Russia can weep and sob as much as he would like, but nothing is going to change, the past never does and he’s tired of it all. Russia is ready for a new start, and hopes that eventually it really will take hold and he won’t be so listless.
Despite everything that has happened he waits at the train station, for a person he needed once upon a time. For a person that has never met him, but seems to knows him so well.
By an unexpected turn of our history, a bit of the truth, an insignificant part of the whole, was allowed out in the open. But those same hands which once screwed tight our handcuffs now hold out their palms in reconciliation: “No, don’t! Don’t dig up the past! Dwell on the past and you’ll lose an eye.”
But the proverb goes on to say: “Forget the past and you’ll lose both eyes.”
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Preface of The Gulag Archipelago
When the train eventually does pull into the station, Russia knows the man at a glance. He is still ugly, worn and hairy with a distinct lack of facial expressions, but it is him, none the less. A part of Russia is happy that America has not changed this hardened Russian.
Russia moves from his spot and goes to meet the writer and his wife as they exit the train and speaks softly, but kindly to them in Russian.
“Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, it is my pleasure to welcome you back to Russia. My name is Ivan Braginski, and I will be escorting you to your new home.”
Dark eyes turn to Russia and look over him from that worn face with something that can’t quite be discerned.
“Ivan” Solzhenitsyn tries it on his lips “It is a good name. A good, Russian name.”
His Russian is still flawless, and Russia fills with pride as he leads the pair to the car prepared for them.
It is unthinkable in the twentieth century to fail to distinguish between what constitutes as abominable atrocity that must be prosecuted and what constitutes that “past” which “ought not be stirred up.”
We have to condemn publicly the very idea that some people have the right to repress others. In keeping silent about evil, in burring it so deep within us that no sign of it appears on the surface, we are implanting it, and it will rise up a thousandfold in the future.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago
Once they reach the dacha, Solzhenitsyn invites Russia inside and is happy to see that the bar area is already filled with vodka. Russia made sure of that himself, but isn’t willing to admit it. The two sit down on a pair of very comfortable chairs and have a drink.
There is silence at first, because neither knows exactly what to say, but eventually it is the writer that speaks.
“So, Ivan, have you ever been outside of Russia before?”
The question is an opener, and Russia isn’t sure where it will go and isn’t even sure he will like where it will lead, but is willing to find out.
“Yes, I have traveled to many places on business.”
“Then why do you still reside here young man? The winters are cold, the summers are short and things are only going to get worse in this country until someone is willing to put in the work required to clean up this mess.”
The response is on his lips before Solzhenitsyn has a chance to inhale his next breath.
“Because this is where I belong.”
Solzhenitsyn does not smile, but there is something in his eyes that shines and sparkles.
“Strait to the heart of the matter I see. I believe you to be right. Russia is where I belong as well.”
Russia thinks that Solzhenitsyn knew that’s what he wanted to hear all along, but he doesn’t show the unbridled pride that swells in his chest, and Russia won’t allow himself to believe it just yet.
“But you have been in America for so long, surely that country has served you well. More so then Russia has ever done. This is my place, but you are free as a bird, well able to be elsewhere.”
You gave your life in servitude to me, but I threw you in prison for nothing; stole eleven years of your life. Then when you spoke of the matter you were raised onto a pedestal before the legs were mercilessly cut from under you. And then finally, I discarded you. Like a piece of trash that I never had any interest in seeing again.
It isn’t said, but both know what the statement implies.
Solzhenitsyn takes a shallow breath before continuing.
“America has been kind to this old Russian, but this is home. My homeland is something I could never forsake. It is because she needed me that I came to her in my writing. And when the government would not allow it, I forced my work through anyway. It was for this marvelous country in her time of need, and if this old traitor of the Motherland can help her, then I will do just that.”
The old man pauses and takes a drink from his glass before continuing.
“The future rests on the young now, my day is past. But I can still be of use here. I will spend my time writing and giving the occasional speech, bolstering the new generation in ways that they themselves swill never have to experience. Look towards the future young Ivan. For the future is yours, and it is the job of us, the generation that has passed to make sure that you do not fall for the same pitfall that we did so willingly.”
It strikes Russia at that moment that he was wrong. He needed this writer then, and perhaps he still needs this old weathered man now.
Without any regard for his earlier inhibitions and the two talk late into the evening. About Lenin (they do not agree, but it is fine), about Stalin, about the Gulag (Russia is even allowed to see those cloth numbers), about the current politics. America even comes up, and Russia finds that conversation just as enjoyable despite its content.
When Russia does actually depart, it is very late and Solzhenitsyn leads him out of the door before asking Russia to wait a few minutes as he doubles back into the house. The nation waits for a while, enjoying the cold crisp air before the writer emerges, a large stack of papers in hand. A feeling of excitement surges through Russia as he is handed the pages.
“It is what I have been working on. I would like you to read it and give me your opinions. Tell me if it is the babbling of an old man, or something worth publishing.”
Russia agrees and excuses himself, the manuscript held tightly in his hands.
The nation is tired when he reaches his home, but there is nothing for it. A work of Solzhenitsyn’s is meant to be read hurriedly, and despite the World Meeting tomorrow, Russia intends to be finished as soon as possible. So he doesn’t sleep, he just reads well into the night.
When he is finished at around 8 am, he is reassured of his revelation. Oh yes, Russia still need this old man, more so then he ever realized.
If it were possible for any nation to fathom another people’s bitter experience through a book, how much easier its future fate would become and how many calamities and mistakes it could avoid. But it is very difficult. There always is this fallacious belief: “It would not be the same here; here such things are impossible.”
Alas, all evil of the twentieth century is possible everywhere on earth.
Yet I have not given up all hope that human beings and nations may be able, in spite of all, to learn from the experience of other people without having to live through it personally.
-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Introduction to the Abridgment of The Gulag Archipelago
Notes: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was once a military officer in WWII, but was arrested for some minuscule reason (I think he knew someone who knew how the speak German well, I can't remember exactly.) and served his time in the Gulag for 11 years. After he was released, with Khrushchev's approval, his first book in Russia, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich was published. It was a satirical piece about the Gulag labor camps and left nothing to suspicion. It was dirty, ugly and most of all, realistic, something that Soviet literature at the time most definitely was not. He was an overnight sensation, and became very popular.
But when he started working on The Gulag Archipelago, a 3 volume set chronically as much historical and first person information he could gather about the Gulag, things went downhill quickly. The first draft was not approved and was scrapped by the Soviet Literary Club (I think this is what it’s called...), but Solzhenitsyn wouldn't take no for an answer and several copies of his manuscript were hand typed and distributed throughout Russia on the sly. His fame grew but once the Soviet got some solid information about it, he was exiled from Russia and his citizenship was revoked.
He lived in America for a while but returned after the fall of the Soviet Union once his citizenship was restored. Despite the fact that his books were highly satirical of the Soviet Union, Solzhenitsyn was most certainly a Russian nationalist. He was popular in America, but that fact seemed to set him apart on the American scene.
AN: Thank you for your time. Comments are lovely, if you enjoyed it or did not.