There is no table of contents in this book.

The stars of death stood above us. And innocent Russia writhed under bloody boots, and under the tires of the Black Marias.

It isn’t me, someone else is suffering. I couldn’t. Not like this. Everything that has happened, cover it with a black cloth, then let the torches be removed. . . Night.

I’ve cried for seventeen long months, I’ve called you for your home, I fell at hangmen’ feet – not once, My womb and hell you’re from.

I would like to name you all by name, but the list has been removed and there is nowhere else to look. So, I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble words I overheard you use.

You were taken away at dawn. I followed you. As one does when a corpse is being removed. Children were crying in the darkened house. A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God.

No, not beneath an alien sky,

And not beneath the shelter of alien wings—

I was with my people then,

There, where my people, unfortunately, were.

1961

Instead of a Foreword

During the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day, someone “recognized” me. Then the woman standing behind me, who, of course, had never heard my name, roused herself from the stupor common to us all and whispered into my ear (everyone spoke in a whisper there):

— Can you describe this?

And I said:

— I can.

Then something like a smile slipped across what had once been her face.

April 1, 1957, Leningrad

Dedication

Mountains bow before this sorrow,

The great river does not flow,

But the prison locks are strong,

And behind them are “penal holes”

And a deadly anguish.

For someone the fresh wind blows,

For someone the sunset languishes—

We do not know, we are the same everywhere,

We hear only the hateful jangle of keys

And the heavy steps of soldiers.

We rose as if for early mass,

Walked through the wild city,

Met there, more breathless than the dead,

The sun lower, and the Neva mistier,

But hope still sings in the distance.

The verdict… And suddenly tears stream,

Already separated from everyone,

As if life were being pulled painfully from the heart,

As if one were roughly thrown face-up,

But she walks… Stumbles… Alone…

Where are now the involuntary companions

Of my two possessed years?

What do they imagine in the Siberian blizzard,

What do they dream of in the lunar circle?

To them I send my final farewell.

March 1940

Introduction

It was when the only one to smile

Was the dead, glad of his peace.

And Leningrad swung like a useless

Appendage by its prisons.

And when, maddened by torment,

The columns of the condemned marched,

And the whistles of the locomotives

Sang a short song of separation,

The stars of death stood above us,

And innocent Russia writhed

Under the bloody boots,

And under the tires of the Black Marias.

1

They took you away at dawn,

I followed you, as if carrying out a corpse.

In the dark room the children were weeping,

The candle before the icon had melted.

On your lips, the cold of the icon,

Mortal sweat on your brow… Never to forget!

I shall be like the wives of the Streltsy,

Howling beneath the Kremlin towers.

November 1935, Moscow

2

Quietly flows the quiet Don,

The yellow moon enters the house.

Enters wearing a cap tilted askew,

The yellow moon sees a shadow.

This woman is sick,

This woman is alone.

The husband is in the grave, the son in prison,

Pray for me.

1938