My Heart: A Book of Love, Written Together

By Alexander Sherman

The novel My Heart consists of letters written over many years by two people who are falling in love with each other. Between them, one after the other, obstacles spring up. Their age difference, then the war that separates them, and, finally, the heroines family arrangement that grows into a dramatic love triangle.

The uniqueness of the book My Heart comes from familiar and common-place situations that are ennobled by such powerful and pure emotions that to modern readers they sound as if they are made up like in a fairy tale. The traditional theme of love conquers death (Gorky) or love sustains and moves the world (Turgenev) is filled out with the specific, every day details from their historical and societal context.

These personal letters are set against the backdrop of immense historical events. Its as though the reader is armed with binoculars he can see fine details in the big picture, and in the details he can see the reflections of the grand design.

The plain and direct language, the attention to details, and, most of all, the clarity and genuineness of emotion, is what makes My Heart such an impressive and valuable document of its era.

Sergei Dovlatov, famed Russian journalist and writer

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456718732

Alexander Sherman

Alexander Sherman was born October 12, 1923 and grew up in Leningrad, U.S.S.R. (now St. Petersburg, Russia). He attended a Military Training University and attained the rank of Captain in the Red Army during World War II. During a fierce battle at the front he was severely wounded by shrapnel and received the Order of the Red Star for his courage. After the war he became a teacher and an attorney. In 1979 he and his wife immigrated to the United States and lives in Baltimore, MD. Over the past 30 years he has travelled all over the world including Europe and Israel. He has published three books in Russian, enjoys his extensive library of over 12,000 volumes and brings joy, warmth and love to his whole family every day.

Book preview

Preface

We lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out of discretion, and so disappears the most beautiful, the most immediate breath of life, irrecoverable for ourselves and for others.

Goethe (Source: Elective Affinities, a novel)

Introduction

My heart still beats in my chest; but when you read this book we will all be dead. I and he and She. Yes, we will be dead, but this book is not about death and darkness, but about Love and Light. I know that people have written thousands and thousands of books about love, but this is a subject that can never run dry because, as Turgenev said so beautifully, love is the axis upon which life turns, spinning ever onward.

People will never grow tired talking about and hearing about Love. The most stern and grim people want to love and want to be loved. No matter what kind of wondrous machines will be invented in the future, still Love will remain the most mysterious and wondrous thing in all the World, even the entire Universe. Young men and women dream of a beautiful and ideal love. But what love is beautiful, and what love is ideal? Every lover believes that he loves best of all.

I will not sin against Truth if I say that my love is both wondrous and beautiful. I think that it deserves to be written about and to be read about. I never thought that I would want to tell people about my love for Her. But now that I am old and death is knocking on my door, I want to tell you this story of a beautiful and extraordinary love.

Such things happen in life that cannot be made up in the richest of imaginations of the most talented writer. I am no kind of writer, but writing this book will be easy because the story I want to tell you is one written mainly in letters. We wrote these letters to each other over a few years. All I need to do is read them to you without inventing anything, without hiding anything, and without embellishing.

We know that some writers use the method of storytelling as lovers writing letters to each other. Before you is a true romance in letters; a true story with real letters. For many, many years I have carefully kept these letters. I keep these letters while I am alive, while my heart beats within me, and when it stops beating, when I die, these letters may, perhaps, be lost, or even be destroyed and then no one will be able to tell the marvelous story of our beautiful love.

But before you start reading these letters, I would like to tell you about that short period of time that preceded them.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1:

Morning

Chapter 2:

Hurricane

Chapter 3:

Green Bud

Chapter 4:

Krokus

Chapter 5:

Firebird

Chapter 6:

Immortality

Chapter 1:

Morning

They say that a child is like wax: while he is young you can form him into any shape. I was a very calm, obedient and gentle child, but I would not allow anyone to shape me into something I wasn’t.

I do not want to touch on some tragic events that befell me in the very early years of my life. Let us let it go for now.

Until I was seven years old I lived in a small, provincial town with my grandfather and grandmother. They were religious people, but I did not become religious myself. Despite my atheism I was always a little bit fatalistic. This was not a belief in the inevitability or the inescapable nature of our Fate, on the contrary, I believed that one should not be led like a lamb to the slaughter, but must fight for one’s own happiness. So what is the nature of this slight fatalism?

This is where we run into the question of the fortunate and unfortunate. Who would deny that there are the lucky and the unlucky? There are people who are constantly tripped up by Fate. I’m not talking about the clumsy and woolgatherers, but sometimes a person is both smart and full of energy, but simply has no luck. This is not mere supposition but a fact, and we all know people about whom it is said: Once unlucky, always unlucky.

In contrast to these unlucky souls, there are those who are always lucky. Whatever storms and squalls may come to them they are always carried safely to shore. Whatever seeming difficulties may fall into the path of these lucky men, it always falls to their advantage. It is said that even the Devil aids the lucky man. This doesn’t mean that lucky men don’t have their own obstacles in life. There’s plenty of trouble to go around, but in a decisive life eventually Fortune will always smile on him. And I should know; I am one of the lucky ones.

The years passed by and the child became a teenager and the teenager a young man. Oh, this springtime of human life, when the very young have a very vivid experience of everything. The young are especially sensitive and vulnerable! This is the time of great plans, when a worldview comes into being, when every person often and deeply thinks long and hard about the meaning of life in general and about his life in particular. This is the time when everyone’s heart is overflowing with love and waits impatiently and with longing for a requited love like a field under the hot, baking rays of the sun waits for a life-giving and blessed rain.

We have all lived through this time and have expectantly waited for this fantastic and ineffable wonder, that is called – Love. And every youth dreams that She, the woman he comes to love, will be the most beautiful and kind, and the most gentle and alluring maiden in the world. But how do you find Her; where does one look for Her? How do you recognize Her? No one knows. How does one recognize that she really is She — the one and only and unlike anyone else? You can look for her all your life and never find her. You can walk right past her and never even know that you just walked by your Destiny, walked by, didn’t recognize Her, and now you will never see her again and never meet her again. Life is the greatest miracle of Nature and Love is the greatest miracle of Life.

When I was close to 17 years old, here’s what happened.

From the school I was attending they were transferring several classes to another school. Starting September 1 our ninth[1] grade was wholly moved to a school on Eight Suvorovsky Street in Leningrad. My friend Syoma Krumer and I did not want to go to the new school. We didn’t have any special reasons for not wanting to go. We just didn’t want to leave the school we had been going to for eight years. We were just stubborn. And the school administration also became stubborn, If you don’t want to be transferred with your class, take your school records and go wherever you feel like going.

We took our school records and went to a school on Lermontovskaya Street.

I really liked my new class. These were good and friendly kids. Not one was lazy, a hooligan, snobbish, condescending, or stuck-up. The guys were good, the girls were nice and the relationships between them were kind. The teachers were good too. My favorite subjects were literature and history. The history teacher was pleasant, but didn’t leave much of an impression on me. But the literature teacher got my attention right away.

She was. . .over 25 years old. Back then I wasn’t that good at judging someone’s age. I remember that I was especially impressed that she did not wear make-up. Made up women were always hiding something, I thought, and I never fully trusted them. I really liked her intelligent eyes and her heartfelt relationships with her students. She led her lessons in a very engaging way; her great enthusiasm created great enthusiasm in her students. She was very genuine and charming which was very attractive right away. Later, I would often go back to that time and remember in particular the way my literature teacher was dressed. She dressed modestly yet elegantly: a pretty blouse; a dark skirt; black silk stockings; patent leather pumps; and a beautiful necklace on her neck. She would wear neither earrings nor rings. Looking at this elegant and graceful woman, dazzling in her extraordinary charm, I suddenly wondered: would I want her to be my wife?

And I answered my own question: No!

Strange, isn’t it? Why did I think about this? I was going to be 17 soon, but I thought about women only in a platonic way. Would I want her to be my wife?

And sternly: No!

Why did I answer no!? I explained it right away to myself. She was much older than I was. As it turned out later, She was 30, and I was not yet 17. Of course it was not love at first sight. Love at first sight is an explosion; but when you begin to measure out the years, that is not love. And so there was no love, but there was an ever-growing fondness for Anna Nicholaevna Svetlova.

Everything, even starting with her name, was beautiful to me. Anna Nicholaevna Svetlova, what could this mean? I began to investigate.

Interesting Science Press had recently published a book called What Your Name Means. I read in this book that Anna means grace and mercy (Hebrew): Nicholai is the conqueror of the people, conqueror of many (Ancient Greek). Her last name Svetlova means light in Russian. Now I could say with certainty that her whole name held something extraordinary and unique: Merciful Grace that Conquers All with the Light. If this marvelous woman conquers many with her light blessing, then how could I alone remain unconquered?

Anna Nicholaevna was more and more attractive to me. The days when we had our literature lessons were real celebrations for me. I didn’t take my eyes off of her and listened to her with great joy. I imagined that she was teaching class for me alone, and I was so immersed in what she was saying that I felt that she and I were the only two people in the world. Soon Anna Nicholaevna organized a literary club and I was the first to join it. At the first meeting of the club, Anna Nicholaevna made me the club president. She asked me to sit next to her at her desk in order to confirm certain organizational details.

I sat right next to Anna Nicholaevna with bated breath, being afraid, most of all, to accidentally touch her, and a wave of heat washed over my heart. I wanted to get to know Anna Nicholaevna better, to find out more about her, but the difference in our ages and in our social position made this dream impossible.

But one day Anna Nicholaevna got sick. Right away everything felt kind of empty.

She came back to class only after a whole week had passed. Only then did it occur to me that had made and unforgivable mistake. I should have used the occasion to visit my sick teacher. A wonderful excuse to get to know her better had passed me by.

Some more time had passed and Anna Nicholaevna got sick again. This time for sure I had to visit her. My wish to visit to Anna Nicholaevna coincided with the desire of the whole class. We chose our delegates (including me). We all pooled our money and bought a big basket of flowers. We found out that Anna Nicholaevna had two small daughters. We bought each of them a chocolate bar.

And so, we went to visit her. The day was kind of gray and rainy, but my spirit was bathed in sunshine. All the people around me were so pleasant and nice; they smiled gently at me, were happy for me. They offered their friendly support and were perhaps even a little jealous. At that moment I once again became convinced just what a lucky guy I was. Imagine it: I refused to go to the new school and my old school wouldn’t let me stay either. How poorly everything had gone at the start, and how well everything had actually turned out. Not long before I had read Voltaire’s Candide and decided that in fact there are people for whom everything that happens is for the best.

Meanwhile, I felt tremendously happy, as if I was on my way to a big celebration. Each one of us took our turn carrying the heavy basket of flowers. But when it was my turn to carry it, I did not let it out of my hands, despite the offers of help from the other boys.

And so we finally approached the beautiful, 5-story building on Plehanov Street. The house was like a palace and this was only fair: since She should in fact only live in a palace. We walked up a wide staircase to the 3d floor. What lucky steps in this stairway, since She often walks on them, I thought. Such fortunate walls, since they often see Her and She touches them when she passes.

Finally, we come to her door. We ring the doorbell. The door opens and before us stands a girl with a dark complexion, for a moment I thought she might be African. Everything was like in a fairytale: a mysterious African maiden guards the slumber of the Queen. I looked around and saw that everything was extraordinary: a big, well-lighted foyer; a very beautiful mirror; and an elegant coat rack. Suddenly an inner door opened, and She came out.

Ah, hello dear ones, it’s so wonderful to see you all. There was no more enchanting music than the melody of her voice.

I gave Her the flowers and in answer She looked at me so tenderly that I felt wings on my shoulder-blades that lifted me up to the heavens.

Anna Nicholaevna was special and everything about her was special. She was even sick in her own way, not like other people. Usually someone who is sick is in bed, looking drawn and worn-out, but with her it was completely different. Anna Nicholaevna was not expecting us, but nevertheless she wasn’t in bed and was dressed elegantly, as always. We asked Her what was wrong and Anna Nicholaevna said that she gets lock-jaw if She speaks too much. This was work related. I had never heard of such a strange malady. Still, it only made sense: a special person has rare and unusual illnesses.

Afterwards I would often venture mentally back to that magical and unforgettable day which for others was just an episode in their lives but for me was a huge event. There are no words that can describe the charm of this meeting with Anna Nicholaevna.

We were seated at a table and had specially brewed, aromatic tea, fragrant homemade cherry preserves and tasty freshly baked buns. Though we were not expected we were generously welcomed and we all felt the most genuine fellow-feeling without a trace of falseness or strain. Everyone was included in the conversation and no one felt left out, excluded or slighted. What a wonderful spirit and a generous heart must a hostess have in such a welcoming home. Unexpectedly the door to the next room opened. A small girl looked out from behind the door; she had dark curls and her black, shining eyes looked at us with curiosity. The door closed again. But right away it opened again and into the room bravely walked another young girl, but this time very white skinned with blond locks. These were the two daughters of Anna Nicholaevna. I instantly named them for myself: Bright Morning and Dark Night. The lighter girl was named Luda and the darker one Ehra. Luda stayed with us, but Ehra did not appear again. These girls were the same height and the same age, I thought they were probably twins. Usually twins looked very much alike, but these two were very different: one very light and one very dark. Amazing! But what was so unusual with my thoughts of amazing, since the word amazing was the norm when used to describe Anna Nicholaevna. . .

We talked easily for a while and then turned on the gramophone and listened to music. I especially remember one entertaining song from an opera, Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. It had lyrics that I found very strange: Drunks were dancing there Round-A-Barrel

This mysterious place Abarrell fascinated me for a long time. But I was embarrassed to ask what this place was. Subconsciously I thought that in this magical palace anything was possible even a foreign land called Abarrell. Curiously, the melody of this song became associated in my mind with this first visit to Anna Nicholaevna’s house. When I thought about Anna Nicholaevna and wanted to be transported back to our first meeting, I would find a solitary place, preferably at night and quietly whistle the strange refrain from that song about Abarrell. And as though by magic before me the scene would form from that first meeting at Anna Nicholaevna’s home. This place Abarrell seemed to me a place where fantastical creatures lived and this strange word gave flight to my imagination and dreams. When I, many years later, listened to that song again, I clearly heard about the drunk dancing around a barrel. Ah, so that’s what it was! I thought. This clarity of phrase swept away all the charm of those then-unknown words and I could no longer whistle that tune nor re-establish the magic of that picture from that first endlessly endearing to my heart meeting years before.

Having stayed a couple of hours at Anna Nicholaevna’s everyone left happy and I was immeasurably joyful. There was no love here yet, but there was endless wonder and admiration for a person, and this is the first step to love. It is with wonder and admiration that love begins. If someone asked me what love was, I would have answered that love is boundless admiration.

And so the beginning was done. I had visited the home of Anna Nicholaevna. It was easier to come visit the second time. I had come to visit with Sam Krumer. Later I came to visit by myself a few times. During all these visits I had only seen Anna Nicholaevna’s husband once. And even then I didn’t see the whole husband just a part of him. It is amusing isn’t it, but it’s true. I remember that I walked into Anna Nicholaevna’s dining room, said hello and sat down. At the table with his back to us sat a solid man in a new brown suit. He never did turn around to look at us. He had neatly cut hair on the back of his head and his neck was lightly powdered; he must just have come back from the barbershop. Having sat there for a few more minutes, he stood up and left the room without ever having turned towards us. He was going to the theater with Anna Nicholaevna. I looked at him as a super being; just to think, this was the husband of Anna Nicholaevna!

No one knew about my feelings toward Anna Nicholaevna, no one could even guess at them. There is a true saying that goes: A secret woe the soul can keep, but a secret joy it cannot hold. I too wanted to share my joy. I could rely on the discretion only of my friend Sam Krumer. I told him that I was in love with Anna Nicholaevna. Sam listened to me calmly without asking any annoying questions and never betrayed my trust.

Summer came and Anna Nicholaevna went with her family to their dacha[2]. To see her for me became a necessity, each meeting – happiness. Back then I wrote in a journal though not regularly. I wrote about our meeting in the journal then. I wrote about it in great detail, just as it happened. Here is that journal entry:

"June 21, 1941

Yesterday Sam and I decided to visit A. N. at her dacha in Turisevo. We agreed to go on the 20th, without fail. Two trains run to Turisevo: 9:16 a.m. and 11:45 a.m. Coming back there is only one train at 9:30 p.m. We didn’t know the way from the train station to her dacha (although we knew the address it is hard to get your bearings out there) so that’s why we decided if we left at 11:45 we wouldn’t get there until 2 p.m. It would be 4 p.m. before we walked to the dacha or even later. It definitely wouldn’t work to take the 11 o’clock train. Our only real option was to take the 9 o’clock. Sam was supposed to come over at 8 a.m. I got up at 7 a.m. and by 8 was ready to go. I should mention that we would call off the visit only if it was pouring rain outside and the sky was dark with leaden clouds. On the 20th the sky was gray, but there was no rain and it was quite warm. I’m waiting for Sam. 8:05 – no Sam. 8:10 – no Sam. 8: 15 – no Sam. 8:20 – no Sam! What happened? I ran to Sam’s house. Rang the bell. After some time Sam opens the door. He’s still sleepy. He just jumped out of bed and was standing in the doorway in his underwear. I cannot stand sloppiness. Moreover the person promised to be at your house by 8 a.m. for an important purpose, but at 8:30 you find him still abed. This is scandalous. His appearance brought me into a rage. He mumbled something to me about the forecast having been for bad weather and rain so supposedly he thought the trip was being delayed (?!). With a voice failing from anger I more hissed than said: Are you coming?! Sam helplessly looked at his bare legs and said: Maybe we’ll go at 11? he asked sheepishly. But I was too angry even to answer. Slamming the door into his face I flew down the stairs. With my feet barely touching the ground I ran to the street car stop. Luckily a streetcar came right away. I jumped into it and was on my way. I decided to go by myself. I arrived at Finland Train Station at 9 a.m. Thank goodness I made it! I bought a ticket, got a seat, and seven minutes later the train blew a powerful whistle, jerked forward and with the tattoo of its wheels gathered speed. Outside my window I could see the suburbs of Leningrad and the stations blinked by. Bela Ostrov Station: the train stopped here for about 10 minutes then we continued on. Within a half kilometer of the station away from the train tracks there is a wide strip of barbed wire barriers, this is the former border between Russia and Finland. I watched it curiously. The further I went the more wondrous Nature was. Woods, glades and meadows and all this was wonderful in all its primeval glory. The pretty clean houses of the dachas were spread out in groups and as single houses. Before the war, Finns lived in them.

At this point I’m on the train for about two hours. Here is Terryoki Station, next stop Tyurisevo. I am very happy yet at the same time a little bit apprehensive. Will I catch Her at home? Tyurisevo Station is here. The train comes to a halt. I jump down and look around. All the station buildings and homes are burned down and destroyed. . .

I skip the description of my wanderings down the deserted roads. I almost walked all the way to. . . Terryoki. I didn’t know how long I was wandering before all of a sudden right before me appeared the dacha, and near it I saw an elderly and noble-looking woman, A. N.’s mother. A.N.’s daughters were playing close by. It’s impossible to imagine how happy I was to see them. A.N.’s mother recognized me and after mutual greetings I asked if A. N. was at home. No, she answered, a couple of days ago she left for Leningrad. I was disappointed but was comforted by the fact that I found their dacha. Nyura, their housekeeper, brought out for me a chaise lounge. I was happy to sit down since I was quite tired. We, that is A.N.’s mother and I, got to talking. It was about 2 p.m. The weather was getting better and better. The sun shined brightly out of a blue sky. A group of people was walking down the path, evidently from the train station. Grandma, this is what I will call A.N.’s mother, looked at the group closely and said, Look, isn’t that my daughter walking there? I also looked in that direction and said happily and a little bit excited, Yes, it is your daughter.

A.N. approached and we greeted each other warmly. She apologized that she had to leave me for a while. I completely understood since she had to speak to her family after her long trip. She returned after about 15 minutes. I updated her briefly on what had happened since we had last seen each other and about my adventures that day. Then she said it was time for dinner. Although I wasn’t hungry I ate anyway. We ate together on her veranda. Having finished eating first, I simultaneously amused and horrified her with excerpts from entrance essays of applicants to the geology college. These excerpts were primarily characterized by the authors’ utter lack of intelligence. For example,

On the battlefield were heard the snores and moans of the dead.

I read her about 20 of these little gems on just three pages of essays. Dinner went very well and was quite lively. I was overjoyed. After dinner we decided to walk to the sea (that is, the Finish Bay). Anna Nicholaevna’s two daughters came along with us. The white one, Ludochka, was making strange at me at first, but soon she and I became friends. Anna Nicholaevna walked with Era and I with Ludochka. Also with us was the five-year old son of Anna Nicholaevna’s acquaintance. All around us were glens, gardens and pretty houses and finally we came to the sea. Here was the boundless water, the surf: Finnish Bay! I don’t understand why such a large body of water which is even bigger than the Azov Sea does not merit to be called a sea. The Finnish Sea, what’s wrong with that? Before us was a wide beach covered in clean yellow sand.

Anna Nicholaevna and I sat on a bench under a wide spreading oak while the kids ran to the water. Not even five minutes had passed and the weather had changed dramatically. Dark clouds gathered and a strong wind had picked up and was whipping up the sand and throwing it directly in our faces. We needed to head home. We quickly gathered our things and began the walk back. Soon it began to rain. At first it was just occasional drops, but in no time it was pouring down buckets. It was still far to the house. We needed to find shelter and here was someone’s little house with a covered porch. We ran towards the porch but before us sprang a large barking dog on a chain. Our small company hesitated with indecision. Luda screamed with fear of the scary animal and I grabbed her in my arms and ran to the porch across the dog’s path. Anna Nicholaevna followed me with the other children. The brave dog seeing such insolence immediately backed off and only barked at us occasionally giving us sideways glances, but was afraid to approach. Soon the rain stopped, the dark clouds moved away and the sun gently shined again. We went home.

After our outing, Anna Nicholaevna went into the house while I sat on the veranda.

Soon Anna Nicholaevna returned, Sasha, starting today the train schedule has changed. The train from Tyurisevo leaves at 5 o’clock, not 9 o’clock. This is so silly and awkward. A person just arrives and already must go. If you would like to take the 5 o’clock train you must begin to get ready right away. But be honest, that’s not a very pleasant prospect. It would be much better if you stayed with us here tonight and then at 5 o’clock tomorrow you returned to Leningrad. But I’m afraid to convince you too much since your mother might worry at your absence.

No, I’m not worried about that, since my mother is not concerned about my long absences.

If that’s so, then stay.

To leave now would be madness. With such anticipation I wanted to be here and to leave now. . . No, this was impossible! If this were just some casual friend then I would go, but here. . . this was a person one thought about who was pure joy. Of course I have no right to even think about mutuality. Oh if she were my age or a few years older she would be mine, I swear it! But I’m not even 18 and she is probably 28, she has a husband and children. I can have only Platonic love for her and there is no other kind for me anyway. She cannot love me, more accurately it does not even occur to her to consider it. But she respects me a great deal; she has told me that herself. What more can I ask for?! I am more than happy! Words are too poor to express my feelings. This is the first love of my life, but it is deep and all-encompassing. A true love. Yes, the days of June 20 and 21 are golden days in my life. How many times I will go back in my thoughts to these days. And so, I stayed. I was beside myself with happiness. An hour later we went for a walk. What can be better for a man in love than this kind of evening. There’s not a soul anywhere, a narrow road, and all around a beautiful forest with the rays of the setting sun lighting the trees. The kids had run far ahead of us. We walked together and talked. My soul is light and happy. Some sort of gentle and magical music sounded all around. It seemed to me that the whole world must hear this music, since it is surely the music of love. I walked with Her and thought that the whole world should envy me.

In the evening we sat on the veranda. I had the urge to tell her about my plans and dreams, to open up the most sacred things in my soul, but I did not know how to begin that kind of conversation. The conversation began indirectly. We talked about philosophy and philosophers, who can call themselves a philosopher, the goals of philosophy and a bit about positivism. But it was getting late. I realized I would not be able to talk tonight about my plans and dreams. It was almost midnight. Anna Nicholaevna said goodnight and left, but it was a long time before I could fall asleep.

June 21 greeted me with a sumptuous morning. It seemed that Nature was sharing my joy. I quickly washed up and dressed. I had breakfast with Anna Nicholaevna. Soon thereafter we took the kids to the seaside, but were not there very long. A biting wind was blowing cold and it was freezing on the beach. We sat for about 20 minutes then walked back.

At this my journal entry comes to an end. I wanted to finish the story of my meeting with Anna Nicholaevna the next day, June 22, but I could not finish my journal entry because this was not just another June 22nd, but June 22nd 1941. I never had the chance to record what Anna Nicholaevna and I talked about that day. I didn’t know then that this was to be the last day of peace in our country before the terrible war that, just in the U.S. S.R., was to take a toll of 20 million lives. I didn’t know that our lives and our destinies would be miraculously intertwined. I did not finish that journal entry and never again wrote a diary of the heart. On June 21 I did not finish the entry in my youthful journal because on that day my innocence was over.

On June 21 I was still a youth, but on June 22, 1941 began my spiritual maturity.

During the most cruel and terrifying days of the war I again and again returned in my mind to those two peaceful days before the black day of June 22, 1941. And my memories of those wonderful, bright days helped my courage and my resolve. Because — Only through love does the world move and hold itself together. And I was in love.

Chapter 2:

Hurricane

It was an extraordinary day, June 21, 1941. I was full of joy following my time with Anna Nicholaevna. Everything within me was singing and there was not a happier person on earth. Anna Nicholaevna remained for me an unattainable goddess, but, thinking of her, I did not feel myself a small or insignificant person. No. I felt like I was becoming better and more valuable. Nothing bothered me: not the difference in our ages, not the difference in our social and family situations. What did I have to worry about? I thoroughly hid my feelings and expected nothing in return. I couldn’t even dream about something like that. That Anna Nicholaevna would love me?! Forget about it! It was the purest nonsense and thrice the fool anyone seemed to me who could believe it.

I loved her and it was more than enough for me. For me she was a beautiful and royal lady and I was her loyal knight, but God forbid that she should ever find out about it. I was happy with just the fact that it was not forbidden to me to see Anna Nicholaevna on occasion.

Saturday June 21st came and went and Sunday June 22nd, 1941 dawned. In the morning my mother left to go out somewhere. I went to walk around the streets of Leningrad. I was close to my home when I heard the first announcement over the large public radio that Germany had broken it’s non-aggression pact and attacked the U.S.S.R.

Germany had attacked the U.S.S.R.! War! Oh, how good! is what went through my mind. How good! Not more than a few weeks will go by when the damned fascists will be broken and the victorious Red Army will liberate, one after another, all of the countries conquered by the fascists! The dark night of fascism will end! The sun of freedom will once again shine over Europe! What joy! What joy! Oh, crazy Hitler — it’s no wonder the ancients used to say that if God wants to punish a man first He takes away his reason!

The end of fascism! The end of fascism!

Happily upbeat, joyful, I ran towards home; and it seemed to me that everyone around me was just as happy that soon fascist Germany would be defeated and squashed. The tears rolling down women’s faces seemed to me to be the tears of joy. . .

Goodness, how foolish I was then.

I ran up to the 6th floor into my room just in time to hear the end of Molotov’s brief speech and these momentous words: Our cause is right! The foe will be destroyed! Victory will be ours! One after another marches boomed from the radio. Hearing these victorious marches I imagined Hitler’s armies being defeated and fleeing from our borders in panic.

The days went by, but for some reason it wasn’t our Red Army marching victoriously over a Europe freed from the fascists, but it was the fascists trampling our soil and spilling rivers of blood. I remember that in the beginning I wondered why it was that our great and brilliant leader Comrade Stalin did not speak on the radio. But, looking for an explanation for everything, I justified it to myself by assuming that Comrade Stalin would be making public announcements only of the highest import in the coming days and would be announcing the defeat of our enemies.

On July 3, Stalin spoke on the radio and said that the situation was in fact so serious that at issue was the very survival of the Soviet nation. But even then I did not understand the depth and terror of the abyss to whose edge we had come. The speed of the fascists’ advance and the retreat of the Red Army seemed to me completely impossible, that this simply could not be. Looking back now at myself in the past, I simply don’t understand what state I was in. I was completely calm; I wasn’t afraid of anything and wasn’t in a mad hurry to get anywhere (for example, as a volunteer to the fighting). By the way, our school had no military training[3]. I have no idea why. I had never held a rifle in my hands. Besides, I stubbornly and foolishly believed that the war was going to end in no time with the brilliant victory of our armed forces.

I decided that I would enroll in the 10th grade in the fall, in night school, and in the meantime would get a job. In July in Leningrad everything was normal (or at least it seemed that way to me). The fascists were not bombing Leningrad. There were no food shortages. My mother and I always ate moderately and so did not feel any lack even now. With derision I looked at those Leningrad citizens who were stockpiling food. It was hard to find work. All the factories were being broken down and moved away from the front. Why?! I decided to get a job as a laborer, anywhere I could find. For example, I could go work in a lumber mill (it smells like the forest, what could be better!). But there was no work at the mill. Then I went to the bread factory (I didn’t think about being hungry, just that even a bread factory would smell good), but there too they didn’t need any more workers.

I would spend whole days wandering around the city trying to find any kind of work. But there was no work to be had. At last, somewhere on the outskirts of the city, I saw an offer on a big metal sign. They were calling for untrained workers for the Okhtinsk Chemical Plant. Although no doubt the chemical plant smelled much worse than the bread factory or the lumber yard, I didn’t care at that point and decided to work even there. I hadn’t had summer break for a few years already: I did factory work and helped my mother. In this harsh summer I felt there was no way not to work. And so it was decided! I will go to work at the chemical plant. But where was this chemical plant? Since it’s called the Okhtinsk Plant it must be somewhere in the Okhtinsk region. But this region is quite large. How was I supposed to find it?

Factory addresses weren’t published in war time in order to not give German spies the locations of the factories. I did not believe in spies back then. They seemed to me to be paper tigers, but in fact they existed and far from paper. There were quite a few of them around, it stands to reason. But people who had been taught even before the war that spies were everywhere among us, were now seeing a spy in everyone. Daily the newspapers reported how wary and cautious people had found out a spy, had revealed a sapper, had caught out a target-designator. I’m completely serious as I write this, without a trace of irony. The country was living through dark, frightening days. Now looking back I see everything much more seriously than I did back then living through those days myself.

And so, I needed to walk to the Okhtinsk Chemical Plant in order to get a job there. But to walk there I first had to find out where it was. I walked in the Okhtinsk region and asked the locals how to get to the chemical plant. And of course nobody knew anything, not about the Okhtinsk plant itself nor how to get to this mysterious place. I heard only No, I don’t know, I don’t know, No.