Apricot Jam: And Other Stories by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Page A
Authors: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
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that. And though I ’ d like to help you, I don ’ t know how I can. So think about it. You have to make up something. ”
Vozdvizhensky returned to the cellar with new hope.
But also with a fog whirling about in his mind. He wouldn ’ t be able to make up anything.
But then to go to a camp? To Solovki ?
He was struck and encouraged by Konoplyov ’ s sympathy. Inside these walls? In a place like this?
He thought about these people from the Workers ’ Faculties who were now rising through the ranks. What he had seen of them until now was something different: a crude, conceited fellow had been Vozdvizhensk y ’s boss when he worked as an engineer. And in the school that Lyolka had finished, some dimwit had been assigned to replace the gifted Malevich.
And, to be sure, poets long before the Revolution had foreseen it and predicted the coming of these new Huns . . .
After three more days in the cellar under the street, beneath the steps of unsuspecting passersby, Konoplyov summoned him again.
Vozdvizhensky still hadn ’ t thought of anything to make up.
“ But you must, ” Konoplyov insisted. “ There ’ s nothing else you can do. Please, Anatoly Palych, don ’ t make me resort to measures. Or have them give you a new interrogator. Then you ’ ve had it for sure. ”
Meanwhile, he was moved to a better cell—less damp and with bunks to sleep in. They gave him some tobacco and allowed him to receive a parcel from home. The joy over the parcel came not because of the food and clean underwear it contained, it came because his family now knew he was here ! And alive. (His wife would get his signature on the receipt for the parcel.)
Konoplyov summoned him again and again tried to persuade him. But how could he dishonor his twenty years of diligent, absorbing work? Simply—how could he dishonor himself, his very soul?
As for Konoplyov, he would now pass on the investigation— inconclusive —to someone else.
Another day Konoplyov told him: “ I ’ ve thought of something and made the arrangements. There ’ s a way you can be let out: just sign a promise to supply us with the information we need. ”
Vozdvizhensky recoiled: “ How can that be ... ? How .. . ? What. . . ? And what information can I give you? ”
“ About the mood among the engineers. About some of your acquaintances, Friedrich Werner, for instance. And there ’ s others on the list. ”
Vozdvizhensky squeezed his head in his hands: “ That I can never do! ”
Konoplyov shook his head. He simply couldn ’ t believe it.
“ So—is it the camps? Just keep in mind: your daughter will also get kicked out of her last year as a class alien. And maybe your possessions and your apartment will be confiscated. I ’ m doing you a big favor. ”
Anatoly Pavlovich sat there, unable to feel the chair beneath him and scarcely able to see Konoplyov right before him.
He dropped his head on the little table—and broke into sobs.
~ * ~
A week later he was set free.
<
>
~ * ~
NASTENKA
1
N astenka ’ s parents died young, and her grandfather, Father Filaret, LKLI who by then had also lost his wife, raised her from the age of five. The girl lived in his house in the village of Milostayki until she was twelve, through the years of the German War and the revolution. Her grandfather took the place of her own father—and of her parents, in fact—and, with his gray head and bright, penetrating eyes (eyes that filled with tenderness when they fell on her), he became the dominant and unfailing figure in her childhood. Other figures, and her two aunts as well, came later. She learned her first prayers from her grandfather, along with moral precepts to guide her through life. She loved going to church. On sunny mornings, on her knees, she would lose herself in contemplating the rays of sunlight shining through the
Vozdvizhensky returned to the cellar with new hope.
But also with a fog whirling about in his mind. He wouldn ’ t be able to make up anything.
But then to go to a camp? To Solovki ?
He was struck and encouraged by Konoplyov ’ s sympathy. Inside these walls? In a place like this?
He thought about these people from the Workers ’ Faculties who were now rising through the ranks. What he had seen of them until now was something different: a crude, conceited fellow had been Vozdvizhensk y ’s boss when he worked as an engineer. And in the school that Lyolka had finished, some dimwit had been assigned to replace the gifted Malevich.
And, to be sure, poets long before the Revolution had foreseen it and predicted the coming of these new Huns . . .
After three more days in the cellar under the street, beneath the steps of unsuspecting passersby, Konoplyov summoned him again.
Vozdvizhensky still hadn ’ t thought of anything to make up.
“ But you must, ” Konoplyov insisted. “ There ’ s nothing else you can do. Please, Anatoly Palych, don ’ t make me resort to measures. Or have them give you a new interrogator. Then you ’ ve had it for sure. ”
Meanwhile, he was moved to a better cell—less damp and with bunks to sleep in. They gave him some tobacco and allowed him to receive a parcel from home. The joy over the parcel came not because of the food and clean underwear it contained, it came because his family now knew he was here ! And alive. (His wife would get his signature on the receipt for the parcel.)
Konoplyov summoned him again and again tried to persuade him. But how could he dishonor his twenty years of diligent, absorbing work? Simply—how could he dishonor himself, his very soul?
As for Konoplyov, he would now pass on the investigation— inconclusive —to someone else.
Another day Konoplyov told him: “ I ’ ve thought of something and made the arrangements. There ’ s a way you can be let out: just sign a promise to supply us with the information we need. ”
Vozdvizhensky recoiled: “ How can that be ... ? How .. . ? What. . . ? And what information can I give you? ”
“ About the mood among the engineers. About some of your acquaintances, Friedrich Werner, for instance. And there ’ s others on the list. ”
Vozdvizhensky squeezed his head in his hands: “ That I can never do! ”
Konoplyov shook his head. He simply couldn ’ t believe it.
“ So—is it the camps? Just keep in mind: your daughter will also get kicked out of her last year as a class alien. And maybe your possessions and your apartment will be confiscated. I ’ m doing you a big favor. ”
Anatoly Pavlovich sat there, unable to feel the chair beneath him and scarcely able to see Konoplyov right before him.
He dropped his head on the little table—and broke into sobs.
~ * ~
A week later he was set free.
<
>
~ * ~
NASTENKA
1
N astenka ’ s parents died young, and her grandfather, Father Filaret, LKLI who by then had also lost his wife, raised her from the age of five. The girl lived in his house in the village of Milostayki until she was twelve, through the years of the German War and the revolution. Her grandfather took the place of her own father—and of her parents, in fact—and, with his gray head and bright, penetrating eyes (eyes that filled with tenderness when they fell on her), he became the dominant and unfailing figure in her childhood. Other figures, and her two aunts as well, came later. She learned her first prayers from her grandfather, along with moral precepts to guide her through life. She loved going to church. On sunny mornings, on her knees, she would lose herself in contemplating the rays of sunlight shining through the
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