Names, events, dates—everything here is authentic.
I fabricated only the details which are non-essential. Therefore, any similarity between the heroes of the book and living people is malicious. And any artistic invention is unforeseen and accidental.
The Author
February 4, 1982. New York
LETTER TO THE PUBLISHER
Dear Igor Markovich! I risk approaching you with a delicate proposition. Its essence is as follows.
For three years now, I have been intending to publish my prison camp book. And for all three years—as quickly as possible.
Moreover, it was The Zone that I should have published earlier than anything else. After all, my unfortunate writing career began with it.
As it turned out, finding a publisher is extremely difficult. Two, for example, have already refused me. And I would not want to conceal that.
The motives for refusal are almost standard. Here, if you like, are the main arguments:
The camp theme is exhausted. The endless prison memoirs have tired the reader. After Solzhenitsyn, the topic should be closed…
These considerations do not withstand criticism. Of course, I am no Solzhenitsyn. Does that deprive me of the right to exist?
Besides, our books are completely different. Solzhenitsyn describes political camps. I describe criminal ones. Solzhenitsyn was a prisoner. I was a guard. For Solzhenitsyn, the camp is hell. I believe that hell is us ourselves…
Believe me, I am not comparing the scale of talent. Solzhenitsyn is a great writer and a huge personality. And enough said about that.
Another consideration is much more convincing. The fact is that my manuscript is not a finished work.
It is a kind of diary, chaotic notes, a collection of unorganized materials.
It seemed to me that a general artistic plot could be traced through this disorder. There is one lyrical hero acting in it. A certain unity of place and time is observed. The generally banal idea is declared—that the world is absurd…
Publishers were confused by such a disordered structure. They demanded more standard forms.
Then I tried to impose The Zone on them as a collection of short stories. The publishers said that it was unprofitable. That the public craves novels and epics.
The matter was complicated by the fact that The Zone arrived in parts. Before leaving, I photographed the manuscript onto microfilm. My executor distributed pieces of it to several brave French women. They managed to smuggle my writings past the customs borders. The original is in the Soviet Union.
For several years, I have been receiving tiny packages from France. I am trying to put the separate pieces together into a single whole. In places, the film is damaged. (I don’t know where my benefactresses hid it.) Some fragments are completely lost.
Restoring the manuscript from film to paper is painstaking work. Even in America, with its technical power, it is not easy. And, incidentally, not cheap.
As of today, about thirty percent has been restored.
With this letter, I am sending a portion of the finished text. I will send the next excerpt in a few days. You will receive the rest in the coming weeks. Tomorrow, I will rent a photo enlarger.
Perhaps we will manage to construct a finished whole out of all this. I will try to fill in some gaps with my irresponsible musings.
The main thing is—be lenient. And, as the convict Khamraev said, heading off to commit a wet job, — with God!..
Old Kalju Pahapill hated the occupiers. And he liked it when people sang in chorus, he liked bitter homebrew, and small, plump children.
“Only Estonians should live in these parts,” Pahapill used to say, “and no one else. Strangers have nothing to do here…”
The men listened to him, nodding their heads in approval. Then the Germans arrived. They played harmonicas, sang, and treated the children to chocolate. Old Kalju didn’t like any of it. He remained silent for a long time, then gathered his things and left for the forest.
It was a dark forest, which seemed impenetrable from a distance. There, Pahapill hunted, stunned fish, and slept on fir branches. In short—he lived until the Russians drove the occupiers out. And when the Germans left, Pahapill returned. He appeared in Rakvere, where a Soviet captain awarded him a medal. The medal was adorned with four incomprehensible words, a figure, and an exclamation mark.
“Why does an Estonian need a medal?” Pahapill pondered for a long time.
And yet, he carefully fastened it to the lapel of his cheviot jacket. Kalju wore this jacket only once—at Lansman’s store.
So he lived and worked as a glazier. But when the Russians announced mobilization, Pahapill disappeared again.
“Estonians should live here,” he said as he left, “and vankas, fritz, and various greenlanders have no place here!..”
Pahapill again went into the forest, which only seemed impenetrable from a distance. And again, he hunted, thought, and kept silent. And everything went well.
But the Russians launched a raid. The forest was filled with shouting. It became crowded, and Pahapill was arrested. He was tried as a deserter, beaten, and spat upon. The captain who had given him the medal was especially zealous.
And then Pahapill was exiled to the south, where the Kazakhs live. He soon died there. Probably from hunger and foreign soil…
His son Gustav graduated from the navigation school in Tallinn, on Luise Street, and received a radio operator’s diploma.
In the evenings, he would sit in the Myundi-Bar and tell frivolous girls:
“A true Estonian should live in Canada! In Canada, and nowhere else…”
In the summer, he was called up for guard duty. The training center was located at the Josser station. Everything was done by command: sleep, dinner, conversations. They talked about vodka, about bread, about horses, about miners’ earnings. Gustav hated all of it and spoke only in his own way. Only in Estonian. Even to the guard dogs.
Furthermore, when alone—he drank, if disturbed—he fought. And he also allowed—”incidents of a feminine nature.” (In the words of Deputy Political Officer Khuriyev.)
“How self-centered you are, Pahapill!” the deputy political officer gently rebuked him.
Gustav was embarrassed, asked for a sheet of paper, and laboriously wrote: “Yesterday, this year, I abused alcoholic beverage. After which I dropped soldier dignity into mud. Henceforth I promise. Private Pahapill.”
After some thought, he always added: “I ask not to refuse.”
Then money would arrive from Aunt Reet. Pahapill would buy a liter of Chartreuse at the store and go to the cemetery. White crosses gleamed there in the green twilight. Further on, at the edge of the pond, was a neglected grave, and next to it—a plywood obelisk. Pahapill would sit heavily on the mound, drink, and smoke.
“Estonians should live in Canada,” he murmured quietly under the measured buzzing of insects. For some reason, they did not bite him…
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