Wolf's Heart

By Saday Shakarli

– This book is prohibited from distribution in the author and #39;s homeland in Azerbaijan.
– The writer was sentenced to ten years of imprisonment for this novel, and his books were confiscated.
– This book was written before Bob Woodword’s book about Donald Tramp.
– After being released from the prison the writer was driven out of his country, at present he lives at Refugee Camp in Belgium.
– The international organizations on human rights recognized the writer as political prisoner and his name was included to their report
– Saday Shakarli is grantholder of Nobel Prize Winner Alexander Solzhenitsyn for life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aegitas
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369404596

Saday Shakarli

Saday Shakarli is grantholder of Nobel Prize Winner Alexander Solzhenitsyn for life.

Book preview

Saday Shakarli

Wolf's Heart

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encoding and publishing house

Saday Shakarli

Wolf's Heart – T.: Aegitas, 2021. – 210 p.

The writer was sentenced to ten years of imprisonment for this novel, and his books were confiscated.

This book was written before  Bob Woodword’s book about Donald Tramp.

After being released from the prison the writer was driven out of his country, at present he lives at Refugee Camp in Belgium:

The international organizations on human rights recognized the writer as political prisoner and his name was included to their report. 

Saday Shakarli is  grant –holder of  Nobel Prize Winner Alexander Solzhenitsyn  for life.

© Saday Shakarli, 2020

© «Aegitas» publishing house, 2021

FIRST PART

As if winter was waiting for me in Saratov; the first snow had fallen before its  time. September was covered with snow, and it was shivering. I had thin clothes on me; my socks were getting soaked, as my shoes were not waterproof, and I was shivering in the cold. In the morning I had to go to university  by tram  and there was no other way to hide from the cold for a couple of minutes. I helped an old woman to cross the road when I got off the tram. She looked at me carefully and said, Come see me after lessons, pointing at her home with her cane. Ask for Anna Pavlovna.

Her  home was a few steps away from our university. 

I knocked on the door and went in. It turned out that she was looking forward to my visit. She jumped out with the boisterous energy of  a 17-year-old girl, rushed to give me borscht soup, and said, You're a student. Eat. There's meat in it, too. (I visited her often and helped her. Because her children were lushes, she trusted and showed me her money she hid  under the pillow, and said, Don't feel shy when you need it.  When she died, we gathered, as a group of students, and gave the old woman a proper burial.)

You will shiver,  dear son. Wear this rabbit fur hat and this coat. It may be old, but we can figure the rest out when I get my pension.

I was very happy when I heard her word. 

I learned the location of the slave  bazaar from the guys in the dorm at once. I was already there at daybreak, snuggled against the wall for warmth. I waited for a job. They took the stocky and strong ones for hard labor. Only a few skinny people remained, including me. Suddenly an UAZ Soviet van stopped in front of us. A lean man got out of the car and came towards me.

Are you from the Caucasus? he said.

Yes, I said.

Are you a student?

I nodded.

Would you work at a bread-baking plant?

Sure.

The car took me away from the bazaar. 

I have never seen an Azerbaijani in the slave bazaar. Azeris prefer an easier way of making money in another market, the man said.

I kept silent. I didn't know what to say.

He stopped near the bakery and said, Learn the rules from the girls. We pay 10 rubles for a shift, and he left. Later the girls told me that he was Jewish and charitable. 

I was over the moon. It appeared that only girls worked here, and he chose me because I was so thin and skinny… 

***

Girls immediately surrounded me. They saw me as a hunk, as fresh meat. First, I took a broom and began sweeping crumbs of bread that were scattered about. Hey student, what are you doing? they shouted with laughter. The whole area of the plant is covered with layers of bread. You won't be able to sweep it away. So, bring other students from your university along next time.

Girls, bread brings abundance. Our people would take a fallen slice, kiss it, and put that slice on their foreheads. I can't trample bread, I said. 

Finally, I swept my work space and said I was ready for work. They gave me a vest and slippers and explained the rules. I first oiled the dough, loaded baked bread in trolleys, and delivered the loaves to docking area. Equipment was adjusted as if to the rhythm of mugham. I was cheerful, so I began softly singing Kasma Shikasta:

Əzizinəm heyy, xanadı.

I am your darling, and this is a house.

gözəllər yan-yanadı.

The beauties are side by side

dəzgahdan isti yağdı,

Our work table is too hot

qızların yanaqları qanadı…

The girls’ cheeks are blushing, as red as  blood…

A Russian beauty's voice was heard a couple pieces of equipment away:

What happened? Why are you crying?

The voice was heard from the  left side.  A Kyrgyz beauty said He is not crying, Lena. He is singing. We also have similar songs.

Then please, Fargana, tell him to sing merry songs.

I already knew two of the girls' names. I did not tell anyone that I hadn't eaten anything  after the fat borscht with meat at Anna Pavlovna's yesterday. The heat of the oven affected me slowly like aged wine and made me faint. When I opened my eyes, people with white coats stood around me.

What happened to me? I asked. Where am I?

"Don't worry, son. You're in the boss's office. You began feeling a little weak, and we brought you here.

Who are these angels? I said.

They are our first aid doctors. Everything is okay. Thank God you're alright! said the director of the plant. She was in tears.

Son, couldn't you eat a slice of bread in a place full of bread?

No, I couldn't. It would be stealing.

The woman covered her mouth with her hands. She said, So very wild. We haven't seen anyone like you since the Garden of Eden, and she hugged me. Are all of your people like you?

If you mean my family, yes. We are accustomed to living honestly. I can't speak for others.

The director emptied her wallet on the table and counted, it was thirteen roubles and thirty copecks. Thirteen of them are yours, and the rest are mine. Do you agree?

I objected.

But you work for me. We can settle up in the end. You can also stay for the second shift, if you wish.

I took over the  8 o'clock night shift. The Jewish man from earlier gave me the parcel when he  left the plant:

My wife cooked it, he said. It is potato piroshki. Don't forget to give me the plate back when you come to work tomorrow. It can be for the next time. I will ask my wife again…

***

They laid the table in the boss's office. They placed boiled potatoes and eggs, homemade vinaigrette salad, Dutch cheese and, of course, different kinds of sausages, the main entree in many Russian meals. These were meals my co-workers likely brought from home, packed lunches.

What are you doing? one of the women said. Go ahead. Eat. 

We still have a lot of work to do, said the middle-aged doctor in the white coat. As angels, we have a few questions for you.

I had been dreaming before I opened my eyes. I was trying to remember my dream in detailds, but the women wouldn't stay still. They jumped in joy. But no one scolded them. Someone turned on the boom box, and they began to dance. For once, an accident, and no one was hurt.

I was astonished that I had this recurring dream for the third time. My eyes were almost popping out of their sockets as when mountain rivers burst their banks. My dreams were dragging me towards my childhood and teenage years. I saw a beautiful version of our village. I saw forests, mountains, woods, hills with sheep, lambs and cattle. From the mountains came a river flowing slowly to the end of our village, like a strand of film, a cinema ribbon. The cinema ribbon was suddenly broken, and I suddenly remembered that it was not a dream, but a glimpse of my childhood.

I started doing my chores just as soon as I arrived home from school. I had to grow up fast. I was the head of my family, starting when I was 12 or 13. I tried to make ends meet, while trying to enjoy the work I did.

It was winter-time. There was little snow on the ground. The sun was setting. I made my way towards the forest for firewood and put the pack-saddle on my black donkey. If I don't go, my five siblings might freeze to death tonight.

I tethered the donkey and chopped a bunch of wood. Sometimes my axe left its handle and flew. I persisted and completed my work. I took the willow rods that I had chopped, but couldn't throw them over the pack-saddle, so I decided to sit and have a rest. I was sweating, my shirt soaked through, like blanched pigeon wings. It was almost getting dark. I heard the howls of jackals. I dreamt of my father, told him of my sorrows. He was angry. He grabbed me by my shoulders and shook me. He slapped me a couple of times across my face. (My father never beat me when he was alive.) I saw our neighbor, Mr.Sarkhosh, in front of me when I opened my eyes. We took my load and headed towards the village. Mr.Sarkhosh told me the rest of it:

"God, help us, I am in trouble. If I didn't have a donkey, this child would have been dead. Poor child, oh dear God! Hey, my donkey suddenly planted its feet firmly. I even struck it with a twig. It turns out that my donkey saw your donkey and recognized it because eat from the same field. When my donkey turned its head to you and opened its mouth I realized that it was braying, and you know that these cursed ears have been deaf for years. I thought it probably saw a wolf, you know. Donkeys stand still when they see a wolf, sometimes they even lay on the ground and surrender. So, I looked carefully and saw your donkey. You were frozen, like ice on the stump. You faded away, with a jerk of your head, and I slapped you in the face. I could hardly wake you. If you had not wakened, you'd be eaten by the wolves or birds of prey.

When we were approaching the village, a number of neighbours headed towards the forest to look for me. My mom ran before everyone, like a warlord who runs ahead and attacks an army out of deep grief.

***

The boss asked me to go  into her office. If you remember, she said, Why couldn't you eat a slice of bread in a factory full of bread? And I said I wouldn't do that without permission. One of the nurses reproached me and put hand on my head, as if sealing a letter, saying, We have read about those starving to death trapped in a room of gold, but this was the first time I've heard of someone fainting of hunger in a room full of bread.

Fear is in the eyes of the beholder, I remember, or there are other sayings in the Azerbaijani language that come to mind, like One man's mistake is another man's lesson.

So, collective-farm and state farm movements encompassed the whole USSR in the 1930s. People in our village also preferred this collective-farm structure. Electing a chairman was also part of the responsibility of the villagers according to the law of the of district authorities. So, influential collective farmers in our village appointed my young, fair, impartial father, who loved the people in his new role. Although this election was not heartily accepted by the government, officials had to respect the people's decision. There were only a few villagers who didn't like this appointment, but local politicians didn't express their dissatisfaction during this type of election.

The 1930s were painful years in the Soviet Union. On one side, there was the spread of many diseases, like cholera and typhus. On the other side, catastrophe hit, such as drought, famine, and wide-spread poverty. All of these challenges spread throughout our villages. The diseases killed many, but they couldn't kill the evil within, such as envy, betrayal, meanness, and infamy. Among the people, these evils spread and bred like mosquitos.

The farmers had already finished the field cropping and had stored wheat in the silos. My father used to arrive at his hut, only to sleep a bit at  nights, and take a nap by laying on the bare dirt floor without ever taking off his clothes. Unfortunately, I can remember only a few moments with my father. I remember overhearing him talk about the war with my mother. Old women of the village complained that they hadn't gotten to return to their homes during heavy workdays. They slept together on grass and straw. My father considered these women to be like sisters to him. The women even swam in the river with my father. They said he was an example for other men. 

One day, a woman came to my father's window and knocked on. She held a baby  in her arms. My father jumped out of bed.

You poor woman, what happened? What's up, this time of night?

Because we're starving, Uncle Asad, my breast milk has dried up. The baby is weeping and throwing a fit, she said. I couldn't find anything to eat. So, that's why I'm here. Could you give me a handful of wheat, so I can feed my baby?

Alright, let's just sit right here and wait. I don't have any food at home right now. But I may be able to go get some.

The silo was far away from the village. Its keys were in the storekeeper's pocket, and his house was far from the silo. My father headed right to the silo because he couldn't get the keys from the storekeeper at this time of the night. He crawled under the silo and pierced the floor from the bottom with a nail, and the wheat began falling out. He took enough wheat for the mother and child, and with mud he covered the hole he had made.

Take it, he said. The poor baby may die, and I won't be able to forgive myself.

God help you, Uncle Asad, she said. Did the storekeeper say anything?

Let's not say anything. No one should know. I stole it for the baby. I pierced the silo bottom with a nail and took it. Go, and never come back again.

I got worried here. I was worried that this woman might be a plant, a spy of the state. If you behaved a soft-hearted and naive person, like a religious person, you would reveal your secret, your theft.

It happened the way I thought it would. The woman talked to her friends about what happened. They took a lantern and went immediately to the silo, found the hole that my father dug up, and stole buckets full of wheat.

Those same people told the district authorities the next day. They said my father stole from the silo. They said my father gave some wheat to starving villagers without the permission of the group. The governing body immediately sent the control committee and recorded how much wheat was missing and submitted the case to the prosecutor's office. The court sentenced my father to be shot.

My father never forgot the women who testified against him, even after he had been drafted instead of being shot. He served four years in the war. Do you understand now why I would not steal bread?

I wrote a poem about this episode of my father's life. The poem is dedicated to my father and is called Cursed Heaven. So much has gone on in the modern world during the past 40 years, and I tried to capture some of my father's life and times.

***

It is probably clear to the reader that I am a poet. Let me tell you a story.

A Union-wide conference of young writers was held in Moscow in 1984. I was included as a representative by the organization of writers named after Saratov. I met Konstantin Yevgrafov, who is known for his book about Peter Volkov, from the JZL (life of amazing people) series in the capital, and we went to the central house of writers. He introduced me to a prominent Russian poet, Vladimir Firsov, who sat at a table near us, and when he heard my name, it became clear that I was becoming a part of his company. We drank vodka and beer and parted ways.

Seminars were held the following day. Hot debates, intense speeches, criticisms, and praise were signs of the beginning of the poetic battle. Readings and discussions began.

At the very end, I had the floor. I stood up and introduced myself. I said, Look, my coat belongs to the Tatars, my tie to the Ukranians, my shirt to the Russians, and my poems to me. Everyone laughed. Then I read my poems. There was no discussion or debate. They said, This man is a real poet. And when I read one of my poems dedicated to my father, Vladimir Firsov suddenly fell on the ground, and yelled ax tı svolıç (you bastard) and sighed deeply, as if he had just fainted. Ivan Kornilov had also expressed the same sentiment back in Saratov, where he called me sobaka (dog). The conference organizers unanimously decided that my book should be published by Molodaya Qvardiya, the young-garde press.

The news spread so fast that I witnessed victory at the doorway when I arrived at the hotel. First, I was afraid and I was proud after I realized that they were waiting for me, and I felt as if I was the leader of the Soviet Army, Marshal Zhukov, when the war was won. Young poets tore through the folder of my poems the way a hungry wolf tears its prey into pieces. Everyone chose and took poems to translate according to their own tastes.

Not long after an editor of the publishing house Molodaya Qvardiya came to Saratov to see me. We met and talked. I had many good poems, but I needed more poems in order to fill out a complete book. I said, Publish what I have. I have no more poems. And I let the editor be.

Some Azerbaijanis used to send gifts to Moscow, a minimum of ten times a year. So that their books would get published. I had met a number of great poets who liked my work, and I had become a bit arrogant because of their praise. 

One of the great poets was Arseny Tarkovsky. People who like poetry read Samizdat (secret self-published) poetry by famous Jewish poets*, and I was among that group of readers.

* Jewish poets were discriminated against in the Soviet Union.

So, we were driving in a sleigh