Ileana Alexandra Orlich, “Communist Totalitarianism in Solzhenitsyn’s
Fiction”, Caietele Echinox, vol. 19,
2010, pp. 243-249.
Although Soviet fiction of the
Stalinist era demands foremost from the writer a scrupulous and courageous
recognition of all the irreconcilable antagonisms that made the lives of the
people in communism so burdensome, so desperate, and at the same time so full
of hope, the writers in that generation failed to meet such a challenge. According
to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn,
From the thirties on,
everything that is called our prose is merely the foam from a lake which has
vanished underground. It is foam and not prose because it detached itself from
everything that was fundamental in those decades. The best of the writers suppressed
the best within themselves and turned their back on truth and only that way did
they and their books survive.1
In sharp contrast with his
contemporaries, Solzhenitsyn writes as a way of capturing the history of
Stalinist Russia before it is obscured by the death of the generations who
lived it. From The First Circle and Cancer Ward to A Day in the Life of Ivan
Denisovich, Solzhenitsyn’s writing offers the most compelling panorama of
Soviet life struggling to transcend Stalin’s paranoid stock of autocracy which
naturally rejected and systematically punished even the faintest expression of
what Joseph Conrad called any “practical form of liberty known to the western
world (Under Western Eyes).” He introduced to literary Russian the language of
the Gulag and the zek (prisoner) by expanding the circle of official discourse
to include the real world of Stalinist terror and the author’s growing
challenge to the Marxist orthodoxy. Most importantly, while presenting the
protagonists’ personal calamities, devastating traumas, and barren struggles
against ideological oppression and an overpowering fear and helplessness,
Solzhenitsyn’s works also illustrate the dignity of moral choices inside an
endless cycle of repression and imprisonment.
In all his polyphonic2
narratives that reveal a complex relationship between the author’s fictional
and autobiographical selves Solzhenitsyn redefines the Russian horizon in a way
that was beyond the reach of most historians in the free world. It is easy to think of Solzhenitsyn as he is
now, the “only living classic” of Russian literature, as Yevtushenko wrote. Yet
in the darker days before Khrushchev openly denounced Stalin at the
Twenty-Second Party Congress (1961), no one in the civilized world seemed to
know about men like Ivan Denisovich, or about concentration camps
systematically created as a mode of genocide. And although the modem theorist
is skeptical about the ability of words to recapture the horizon of another
historical age, Solzhenitsyn managed to develop a liveliness and concision that
shocked and revivified the Russian world of his contemporaries. His fiction
interrogates political possibilities based on ingenious notions, such as the
ethical socialism of Shulubin in Cancer Ward, subjects the quotidian to questions
and analyses that are nearly always socially-oriented, and aims to make a full
and detailed disclosure about Soviet life and to examine its moral essence.
Above all, these works are a series of assents or refusals to participate in
the lies that support the Soviet system. So thoroughly does Solzhenitsyn
believe in the power of truth that he told one BBC interviewer that if all
three books of The Gulag Archipelago were available in Russia, “in a very short
space of time no Communist ideology would be left. For people who had read and
understood all this would simply have no more room in their minds for Communist
ideology.”3
For a more comprehensive
understanding of Solzhenitsyn’s mind as a conservative thinker with a full
appreciation of Western culture and a deep respect for Russia’s spiritual
traditions, as well as of his pivotal role in defeating the communist behemoth,
the reader needs to relate to what the writer himself has termed
“anthropocentric humanism.” Toward the end of the chapter entitled “Dante’s
Conception” in The First Circle one of the new arrivals at the sharashka (the
Mavrino Institute) has the blissful feeling that he must be in Paradise. The
imprisoned philologist Rubin corrects him by pointing out self-mockingly that
they are still in Hell, as before, but have ascended to its highest circle, the
first circle thought up by Dante, who had to find a place for the sages of
antiquity. Since the duty of a Christian was to cast all heathens down into
hell, and because the conscience of a Renaissance man could not be reconciled
to confining them with the rest of the sinners, Dante devised such a place
apart for them. In Canto IV, as Rubin explains, Dante is led by Virgil into the
first circle of Hell or Limbo, the uppermost verge of the huge funnel of Hell,
where the unbaptized souls of infants and virtuous pagans and especially the
poets, philosophers and heroes of antiquity dwell suspended.
Thus the title, The First
Circle, dictates the very structure of Solzhenitsyn’s novel: the inmates of the
sharashka, a special project camp not unlike Dante’s Limbo, are at the top
level of Stalin’s Hell, with Stalin himself as a devilish presence felt through
an indirect but constant refrain of adulatory phrases like “Nearest and
Dearest,” “Father of Western and Eastern Peoples,” and even a fictional
portrait. In the chapter called ”The Birthday Hero” he is “only a little old
man with a desiccated double chin which was never shown in his portraits …
whose name filled the world’s newspapers, was uttered by thousands of
announcers in hundreds of languages… It had been given to a multitude of cities
and squares, streets and boulevards… and a group of Moscow journalists had
proposed that it be given also to the Volga and to the moon.” This monstrous
creation of the propaganda machine featured in The First Circle sits alone at
night reading his official biography, convincing himself of the identity which
was invented for him: ”From 1918 on he had for all practical purposes become
Lenin’s deputy (Yes, yes, that was the way it had been)… He watches the
propaganda films of Virta and Vishnevsky and, although bored, is pleased.”
Caught in an information loop,
Stalin is receiving back the image he has ordered presented. It moves him,
profoundly, sentimentally. But in the midst of the artificial sentiment Stalin
grows bored and goes out to seek new victims. The degree to which the portrayal
of Stalin and the state organs’ actions in The First Circle anticipates Michel
Foucault’s description of state power is remarkable. Speaking of the minute
details involved in the creation of a prison system Foucault writes of “Small
acts of cunning endowed with a great power of diffusion; the attentive
‘malevolence’ that turns everything to account. Discipline is a political
anatomy of detail.”4 The portrait of Stalin in The First Circle depicts a man
who is obsessed with bringing everything under his control, no matter how small
or apparently insignificant. Yet it is precisely this attitude, Solzhenitsyn
argues, which has destroyed Russia. By creating an apparatus of terror and
control which could include any thought, any opinion, any deed done or undone,
Stalin had destroyed the will of his own nation to act, lest it act
incorrectly. Both Solzhenitsyn and Foucault agree that force applied with
attention to the minute particulars can make a prison house of the whole
society.5
Corrupted and perverted by the
political conditions and the panoptical surveillance of a totalitarian society,
everyday life in USSR is a quintessential experience on Russia’s bright red
communist horizon, kept alive in the camp of the povest’ One Day in the Life of
Ivan Denisovich, the Moscow upper-class world and the sharashka in its various
forms like the Mavrino Institute, the Lefortovo interrogation office and Lubianka
in The First Circle, and the cancer pavilion in The Cancer Ward.
The differences among the
camp, the sharashka, and the ward are largely illusory. In fact, when Cancer
Ward was published, Pravda’s editor N. Zimyanin accused Solzhenitsyn, among
other things, of ”an obsessive preoccupation with a single theme – the camp
theme.” Compressed and crowded, these spaces of confinement that embody the
spirit of evil produce the effect of a microcosm which replaces the artificial
hierarchies of the outside world with a fundamental scale of values and
suggests that everyone is essentially in the same trap. The close interaction
of characters with diverse social, political, cultural, and even ethnic
backgrounds brings ironic contrasts and reveals communism’s all-pervasive lies
and the anxiety and terror that covered the whole country. In Cancer Ward, most
of the conflicts derive from the clashes of ideas between central characters.
Rusanov, the communist bureaucrat and abominable party hack in Cancer Ward,
whose chief occupation in the past seems to have been cooperation with the
secret police and denunciations, with dire consequences for both his friends
and enemies, dismisses the conscience by stating that immoral acts are merely
“bourgeois vestiges” and Leninism has taken care of the problem of conscience
“once and for all.” Rusanov’s counter, Kostoglotov, Solzhenitsyn’s best
developed fictional character and, to a certain extent, the author’s alter
ego,7 whose erosion of sexual power is made subtly analogous to his political
persecution, insists that the human spirit demands an ideal of individual moral
perfection and that the conscience is its touchstone. In The First Circle, the
painter Kondrashev-Ivanov pursues in the sharashka this ideal of moral
sustenance in his painting of the Holy Grail, the object of ultimate quest
derived from religious institutions and ritual, while the Stalin Prize writer
Galakhov lives outside prison walls but in fear of watchdog critics whose sole
mission is to protect communist ideology and toe the party line. A Day in the
Life of Ivan Denisovich features a world of physical pain, endless
surveillance, tormenting pain, hunger and exhaustion that turn man into a beast
of burden suffering at the hands of other wild beasts, the guards of the camp.
Survival is conditioned by resignation and calculated submission, both of which
grant the zeks the modicum of volition that gives life its meaning.
Solzhenitsyn’s own experience in the camps gave him too much first-hand
evidence not only about the brutality of the guards but also about the peasant
personality, enough to allow him not to be content with saintly simple heroes.
Such characters as Ivan Denisovich or Spiridon (the sharashka janitor in The
First Circle) are mixtures of the sly, the stubborn, the self-interested, and
the ruthless as well as of the common-sensical, the enduring, the generous, and
the heroic. Of Spiridon, the narrator says: “Not one of the eternal questions
about the validity of our sensory perceptions and the inadequacy of our
knowledge of our inner lives tormented Spiridon. He knew unshakably what he
saw, heard, smelled, and understood.”
Although some critics see in
all these works only static collages with characters that seem to blend into an
amorphous mass8, the personages are carefully differentiated and personal
responsibility takes a variety of shadings. In The First Circle Volodin, a
decent Soviet diplomat who has opted for the perks of Stalinism, performs a
compassionate deed that sends him to Lubianka and to torturous death; Rubin, a
convinced Leninist, has persuaded himself of the good of Marxist ideology
expounded in interminable quarrels with the fiery skeptic Sologdin; the
prosecutor Makarygin, uneasy with his own daughter’s accounts of social
injustice, concludes that the stories are “un-typical.” In this novel in particular each character
that makes a moral or humane choice faces a worsening of his or her situation.
This is not an irony of fate; the source of the evil is the Stalinist system,
with its poisonous ideology, its perpetration and deification of the lie, and
its compulsion to waste and destroy human life.
In Cancer Ward, Rusanov, the
servile informer who justifies his actions by such meaningless phrases as “it
is my civic obligation” and “in the common interest of the general public,” is
also a good husband and a doting father. Kostoglotov, Solzhenitsyn’s occasional
mouth-piece, is anything but meek and saintly. The only meek and saintly
character is Aunt Stefa, who listens sympathetically to young Demka, teaches
him resignation and submission to God’s will and provides the hungry boy with
homemade meat pies. There is also character growth. One patient, Efim Podduev,
is presented at the outset as an opportunist without any moral convictions. But
Solzhenitsyn convincingly shows his gradual spiritual regeneration under the
double impact of impending death and the spiritual teachings of Tolstoy.
Ultimately, Stalinism provides
the glue that cements all these three works, and fuels their Inferno-like narrative
tension. As Rusanov sees his world
crumble before his eyes and feels distressed about the absence of his boss,
Beria, he declares in his defense: “I didn’t pass sentences. I didn’t conduct
investigations. I only voiced my suspicions. If in a communal toilet I find a
scrap of newspaper with a torn picture of the Leader – it is my duty to
introduce this scrap in evidence. And the investigating authority is there to
check on it.” But while good men are
crushed, battered and hemmed in narratives of cruelty, frustration, and
suffering, the courage of despair of Bobynin, another autobiographical self
Solzhenitsyn features in The First Circle, seems to guarantee the only modality
of survival by preserving one’s moral integrity.
For even though the three works
include a meticulous portrait gallery of characters with their central
experiences and entangled personal relationships, they invite interpretation
from Solzhenitsyn’s contemporaries who must find the courage to probe deeply
into the complicated and frequently paradoxical relationship between fiction
and one’s own autobiography. In this context, there is an even more ancient
tradition of the first circle found in Plato’s Ion. There the mere rhapsode is
confronted with the fact that his art is the imitation of the practical man’s
imitation of an eternal Form. Plato issues his challenge to the legitimacy of
the poet’s role by invoking the famous image of successive rings. The Muse’s
power, like a form of magnetism, passes through the first ring to successively
lower ones which suspend the poet who takes inspiration from her divinity. If
the poet is inspired by this divine contact, others are drawn irresistibly to
him through the soul-magnetism which he has received from the Muse.
Solzhenitsyn understands perfectly the nature of Plato’s challenge as he
centers the search for a man’s soul on his relation to the first circle, which
is the act of narration preoccupied with truth and honesty. His works are about
the search for that first, magnetic love, the form or essence of a man’s soul
through the hermeneutic circle of culture and language. From that perspective
too, all these works transform Solzhenitsyn’s experiences in Stalinism and
encounters with communism into a universal story of a mental and moral wasteland.
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