His stories always struck Anna Chertova to the core of her Russian soul. Her father, Alexei Grozdev Chertov, presented, Chekov's "Vanka" as a Christmas present on her tenth birthday.
Anna Chertova was born in a small village, fifty miles from Anton Pavlovich Chekov's country home in Melikhovo. Alexei Chertov, like Chekov's father, was a serf who toiled daily as a common laborer. Yet, there was always enough food and Anna never felt deprived. Cold, perhaps, in the freezing winters; but, never deprived.
Her mother, Yelena, was a capable cook and knew the fine art of stretching food, even baking Anna's favorite dessert, honey cake and paska, a delectable bread reserved for Easter celebrations.
Anna's childhood was typical of most Russian girls. Yelena made certain her young daughter learned to cook and sew. Her father insisted his daughter learn to read. The hours he spent reading to her and teaching her to read are some of Anna's most cherished memories.
By the time Anna was fifteen, her baking skills were such that her black bread was known all over their village as one of the finest. She loved cooking and baking and being at her mother's side preparing boiled potatoes slathered in soured cream and Russian caviar, piroshki or the traditional beef and beet salad for holidays. Something down deep inside screamed of a desire to shed peasant life. For girls of Anna's age that would mean studying at university. She knew her parents could never afford that.
She fairly feasted upon any books she could lay her hands on. Always, the quiet, honey-haired Anna could be found nestled with a book off alone in a corner or when weather permitted near the stream a few yards from her home.
Young men in Anna's village were conscripted to work as soon as they were able or they attended university. Most village sons worked because the cost to attend university in Moscow was not affordable for their peasant families. Some could attend schools that prepared them for jobs in law or coal, oil and gas industries.
When she wasn't reading another Chekov story, she was writing her own. Her mother grew concerned that her daughter was on a path that might steer her away from the traditional role of most Russian peasant women. Perhaps, she wondered, it was Alexei's doing that led their daughter to spend so much of her free time reading and writing. Unlike most girls her age, she wasn't fond of poetry.
"Anna, show your Papa what you write," Alexei said.
Yelena looked up from her embroidery with an expression of concern. She fretted over Anna's growing obsession with writing. Yet, she couldn't chastise the girl. Anna always finished all the chores she was given.
Alexei read Anna's treatise on the beauty of words. Instantly, he recognized Anna's talent. Her words were clear and without error, nearly on the level of advanced university students.
"Papa? Do you like what I write?" Anna asked.
Alexei glanced quickly at Yelena. In a single glance, Yelena knew what Alexei was about to tell the girl.
"Anna, you write excellently. But my dear daughter, of what use will this be when you marry and have children to tend to? You see how hard your mother works for the family," Alexei said.
Anna was disappointed and at once encouraged. Her papa saw her writing was worthwhile. She gave no answer. She was resolute that no matter what, neither marriage or children, she would prevail in her love of writing.
Alexei was not the man to waste time. Russian men appear as strong as metal on the surface. Inside, they hold a great love for those things they consider most valuable to their existence: fresh air, sunshine, good food, vodka for special occasions, family, education, music and art. Not always in that order. It is what makes them at once fascinating and as diverse as the colors in a rainbow.
He recognized that his daughter had surpassed the ordinary in her writing. He decided to quietly pursue the possibility of Anna earning a university scholarship. He spent the next year and a half writing letters of inquiry to university. Then, he had an idea. Instead of inquiring about a scholarship, he asked Anna to write for him. He knew he would send her writing to the professor at university in charge of literature.
Anna reached age seventeen on the very day the letter from Professor Sergei Baronikoff arrived by special post. Alexei read the letter inviting Anna to attend classes on scholarship.
"Anna, I have done something I hope you will like," Alexei said.
"Yes Papa?"
"Read for yourself."
Alexei handed the letter to Anna. Her watched her expression of delight. He had never seen her as thrilled, not even when he handed her the Chekov book, "Vanka," she so cherished as a child.
"Oh Papa, this news is so fine...so very fine!"
Yelena was not so sure it was fine. Her daughter would be living in the women's dormitories on the university campus with neither Alexei or herself to guide her.
Alexei caught Yelena's less than enthusiastic glance.
"Don't worry Mama. We send a good writer to university to become a great writer when she returns."
But, Anna would return only for holidays. The government of her country was once again in turmoil. Students at university were protected from the brewing hostilities due to the heavy weight of their studies. Secretly, many of them took part in revolts in ways that were less visible.
Anna was concerned only with studying, taking exams and getting the best grades possible. In the women's dormitories, she kept to herself. Her roomates, Irina Sharakova, an archeology student and Tanya Avetnikoff, a ballet student, thought Anna distant because she was always surrounded by books. Anna took full advantage of the university library. When she wasn't reading in the library during her free time, she spent it reading in her room.
By the time Anna was to graduate, her writing skills caught the eye of Professor Mikhail Genkov, himself a renowned proficient of Anton Chekov.
"Anna, you must try to develop your writing style. Do not copy the style of others," he admonished.
It was through Professor Genkov's constant urging that Anna realized he was correct. She knew she loved Chekov, but to emulate his style was wrong for her.
"Your love of Chekov is worthy. But, you must realize you can write what you know from the world you were born into," Professor Genkov said.
The world I was born into is uninteresting by the standards of peasant life in rural villages in our country, she mused.
How can I write from the world I was born into?
This was a question that would haunt Anna until she completed her education. The world she was surrounded by was dangerous and often like living atop a sharp knife ready to slice anyone who dared veer right or left of center.
She felt sad when it was time to leave university. Irina Sharakova was being conscripted into a group of archaeologists who would be working on antiquities in Greece. Tanya Avetnikoff was already a member of corp of the Bolshoi. Anna felt as if she had no direction.
More and more her country gravitated toward the works of the Prussian born philosopher and economist, Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin and their ideas of state capitalism. For Anna, this meant keeping her love of writing far less visible.
Anna, now twenty-five years old in 1904, stopped into a state run book store. She could see already the changes in literature. She was shocked at the headline in a newspaper: her beloved Chekov died in Germany. His body would be returned to Russia for burial. For Anna, Chekov's passing left her feeling as if there was an enormous hole in her heart.
Anna continued to keep her writing invisible to the public eye. She visited Alexei and Yelena twice a year on holidays and allowed them to read her writings. Alexei was proud; but, Yelena lived in fear her daughter would be exposed to the Bolsheviks now in power in government.
"Mama, a writer must have experiences, no matter the danger. It is how writers become great writers. I cannot write word after word of things that do not matter," Anna said.
"But daughter, you are a woman. Women cannot place themselves in danger because they cannot protect themselves as men can," Yelena said.
"Mama, I am not planning to return to Moscow," Anna said.
Yelena was thrilled. Her daughter was coming home!
"I am planning to do as Chekov did. I want to see how the starving people of our country really live. I want to tell the world so they will know Russians are deeply in need of help they will never ask for out of national pride. If no one tells the world of their plight, how will our country survive?" Anna said.
"And where do you plan to live? You have a very small income. Your father and I cannot provide more. Please, I beg of you. Remain here in our village. It is safe and far from the eyes of men in government who seek domain over all of Russia," Yelena said.
"Mama, I am planning to go to Tolyatti. I have read that there are many, many poor people there," Anna said.
"Tolyatti? But, that is a dangerous place where many men have no work," Yelena said.
"Mama, our daughter is a visionary. She cannot write what she cannot experience. Anna will be fine. Her experiences in Tolyatti will make her a more understanding writer," Alexei said.
Yelena's aging brow was deeply wrinkled when she and Alexei said goodbye to their daughter. It would be the last time Anna would see them.
It was as Yelena had said about Tolyatti. Men were jobless, homeless and...lawless. Anna found a small room in the home of Pietr and Maya Voltenski. It was located on the rim of the city and away from the shops and noise.
Tolyatti was not far from the sea. Yet, the climate was mild enough to be tolerable for residents. It was clear Tolyatti was suffering from lack of jobs. Anna helped the Voltenskis with her meager government stipend. She paid for her room but gave back by purchasing flour to make bread and whatever cheeses could be had in the mostly empty markets.
It was in Tolyatti that Anna would meet a man with a great impact on her life. Anna met Andrei Zolotnik as she walked to the market to shop for Maya and Pietr. He was dressed in a black great coat and cap.
The two collided during a sudden wild gust of wind. Anna was stuck by the man's height and his angular face that was framed by black hair and the dark eyes of a Gypsy. Since poor men picked the pockets of other men or stole purses from women to survive, Anna assumed this was the way of Andrei.
Instead, as they collided, Andrei smiled and tipped his cap.
"I am so sorry, sir," Anna said.
"It is the wind, I am afraid."
Anna didn't see Andrei again for several weeks. The next time they met, he was sitting with a cup of coffee in his hand at a table outside a cafe. Anna was drawn to the man. She walked toward the cafe and ordered a cup of strong tea. Although there was another empty place, Anna approached Andrei's table.
"May I join you?" she asked.
This was the most brazen thing Anna had done in her life and she wasn't even certain why.
"I am so sorry for the intrusion. The other tables are occupied," Anna lied.
"You. We have met before. That windy day several weeks ago," Andrei said, ignoring Anna's slight fabrication of the truth.
"Why yes. I do believe we met that day. We should introduce ourselves, no?" Anna said.
"I am Andrei Zolotnik and you?"
"I am Anna Chertova. I am a writer. My parent's village is near Melikhovo," Anna said.
"That is a long way from Tolyatti. Why are you here?"
"I chose Tolyatti because I wish to tell the story of the people who live here," Anna said.
"They have no story to tell. Hunger, starvation and deprivation is not a story. It is our way of life. Just as the curse of mindless poverty is our way of life," Andrei said.
Anna gave no response. She studied the man's manner and his features carefully, soaking them into her memory as if her mind was a sponge.
From the papers Anna could find, everywhere in Moscow there were whispers that the Bolsheviks were the ruling party and would soon establish a communist government.
She wondered how this would affect her future plans and her life in general.
"Anna, you didn't answer my question. Why are you here? Surely, you do not wish to make fools of the poor in Tolyatti," Andrei said.
"I want to write in the voice of the people of Tolyatti. My muse is Chekov since I was a child. His writing inspires me. You know Chekov?"
"Yes. I also know many Russian writers start writing in the voice of the people and end up making their voices like sharp knives. It is very dangerous at this moment in time to be a writer. Lenin does not approve of frivolity of any kind. Socialists all believe it is a grave offense against the state to waste time on such foolishness when there is so much work to be done," Andrei said.
"And you, Andrei? What do you believe?" she asked.
"I believe you are a woman alone in a strange place at the wrong time in our country's history. I believe you should consider keeping silence about your plans for your writing or return to the safety from whence you came."
Anna should have sensed Andrei's words came from his desire to warn her. Yet beneath that desire, she saw something more...a man who was living on the edge of fear.
She hadn't been raised to waste time either. Her father had seen to that. Still, there was a clear vision of using time in worthwhile endeavors.
That night all alone in her room, the urge to write of the time spent with Andrei was overwhelming. She rose from her warm bed in her night gown and began to put pen to paper. She wrote without any direction. She wrote only what occurred and the nuances of what the conversation had been between herself and Andrei .
She discovered that deep inside of what occurred was something Anna realized was a much bigger picture. She needed to know how the common people accepted the Bolsheviks. She decided the very next day she would seek out Bolshevik sympathizers. She knew she would have to be careful about the questions she asked and to limit the number of sympathizers, if she could find any willing to talk.
On her way to market, Anna stopped to look at an artist's painting. A stocky, man with a bushy, red mustache started toward her.
"Madame is interested in my painting?" he asked.
"Why yes. I am; but, I am sure I cannot afford it. It is such a lovely winter scene of this city," she said.
"Madame should know art is not going to be allowed much longer in public places. Already, I have been warned to close my gallery," he said.
"But, art is an important part of all Russians. Will they close the Empress Ekaterina's palace with all its wondrous art?" Anna asked.
"I am sure they will. Madame must know artists today are some of Russia's poorest peasants. I would accept whatever you can afford to pay. I am ashamed to say, my poverty is such."
"What is your name, sir?"
"Pavel Kustodiev," he answered.
Anna browsed a few more of his works. She decided on one of his self-portraits. In this portrait, Pavel was much younger and Anna liked the rustic scenery in the background.
"I will have this one," she said.
She handed him fifty rubles. The man's expression of delight made Anna grin broadly.
"It is enough for your painting?"
"Madame is more than generous," he said.
He wrapped the painting in burlap and handed it to her.
"Might I ask what is Madame's name?"
"I am Anna Chertov," she answered.
"Is madame an artist or art lover?"
"I am a writer who is a Russian who also loves art."
Pavel smiled and took one step back to see this young woman who was a writer. It was grand to see a Russian woman brave enough to take on the challenge of writing in such times.
"Is madame published?"
"Not yet. In due time, I hope to present my first book to publishers."
"Monsieur, I am interested to know of Bolshevik sympathizers," Anna said.
Pavel shrank back as if he had been bitten by a dragon.
"Oh, Madame. You do not want to know such a thing."
"I want to know why the common Russian man and woman wouldsympathize with the Bolsheviks," Anna said, flatly.
"It is dangerous Madame. So very dangerous," he responded.
"It is of no worry to you, sir. I have only a desire to write in the voices of the people. You can see that I must understand what the Russian people think and feel. I must know from them why they trust Bolshevism."
The man leaned closer to Anna and whispered,
"The desperate trust those who keep them alive. In these times, being alive or dead has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with survival. A hungry man trusts Rasputin if that tyrant fills his belly.
Peasants want to work and earn a living to feed themselves and their families. This is what Bolshevism promises them," Pavel said.
Anna was shocked at how sharply Pavel expressed his feelings. She made a mental note of his expression, his demeanor and his opinion. Clearly, Pavel was anti-Bolshevism.
"Perhaps, our beloved country will be more well fed under Communism?" she asked.
"We will be better off when there is work for men and pay that allows them to eat," he hissed.
"Why is there so little work in Tolyatti?"
"Men work at digging coal to keep rich men warm in our bitter winters," Pavel said.
"Are they not paid for their work then?"
"A dead man who has been worked to his end has no need of pay," Pavel said.
"Pavel, you have been most helpful. I will pay you for your help," Anna said.
She reached into her purse. Just as she did, Pavel put his hand over hers to prevent her from paying him.
"But, you can use the money, no?" she asked.
"If the local authorities find I earn too much, they will confiscate my art and my personal possessions."
Anna saw the fear in Pavel's eyes. She felt as if the world she knew in her small village home and here in Tolyatti were like two strangers.
When she returned to to the Voltenski home, she saw tears in Maya's eyes and a very worried expression on Pietr's face.
"Has something happened?" Anna asked.
"Pietr is to be sent off to Yakutsk," Maya said tearfully.
"Anna, you know Yakutsk? I am to be in charge of miners there. Yakutsk winters are death to people who have never lived there. I will not make my wife endure it. She must remain behind. She wants to be in Yakutsk with me. I cannot allow it," Pietr said.
Anna was in shock. She didn't know why Pietr was being sent to a desolate, frozen part of Russia. It was where authorities sent those they considered a danger to their revolution. Pietr Voltenski was neither a writer or artist nor a threat to anyone. He was a small shop keeper who sold only government approved goods at government approved prices. Maya eked out her living as a seamstress in a small ladies shop in Tolyatti. This news angered Anna.
"Pietr, Maya will be alright here in Tolyatti. Together, she and I will raise enough money to keep your home here when you return," Anna said.
"Anna, you don't understand. The authorities mean I should never return!" Pietr said.
Maya began to sob loudly. Anna put her arm around the woman to comfort her. There could never be any consolation for dividing a husband and wife.
With Pietr gone, Maya and Anna kept to themselves. Whispers were rampant of a World War in Europe. Already the government was conscripting young men into the military.
"Why do men fight?" Maya asked.
"Because they lack the ability to grasp and hold onto peace," Anna responded.
The two women's days droned on endlessly in a bleak, mindlessly frigid Russian winter. Russians are the hardiest people in the world and nothing, not even temperatures of 50 degrees below zero, prevent them from their daily chores or their work.
This Tolyatti winter brought snow storms with fierce knife-like winds and snow drifts that covered the tops of smaller cottages in town and the windows on the first levels of two-story buildings. Yet, Tolyattans took it all in their stride. They bore down upon the snowy onslaught with their usual manner: Awake, dress warmly and don sturdy, knee-high leather boots. The sound of shoveling was everywhere.
In Tolyatti, Anna tread carefully when asking questions for the novel she was writing, "The Triumph of Tolyatti Peasants," She wanted to write her work to reflect the difference between Russian men and Russian women and their attitudes toward struggle, austerity and inequities imposed on them by the authorities.
She chose to combine the characteristics of all of the women whose paths crossed hers: her mother, Yelena, her former roomates, Tanya and Irina and of course, Maya Voltenski.
Anna studied their personalities, combing through each one of their basic instincts and sensitivities, looking for the common thread. She would do the same with the men she would write about like her own father, Alexei, Professor Genkov, Andrei Zolotnik, the artist Pavel and Pietr Voltenski.
Anna was given work in a shipping office. Her duties reminded her of a machine she once saw while on a trip with her father. The machine operated mechanically and without failure. Anna checked orders all day until her eyes grew tired and blurry. She rose with the sun, when and if, the Tolyatti sun rose in winter and dressed quickly to avoid the cold air in the Voltenski home. Maya had to save on fuel. So, the two women slept in separate rooms with heavy featherbeds atop their bodies.
"It will be alright, Maya," Anna said, when Maya complained of the cold and austerity.
"Yes. I know. At least, we have a roof over our heads," Maya answered.
"We should be thankful for that," Anna responded.
"Be careful of too much thanks for too little. It has a way of making too little become much less. Then, we must be even more thankful," Maya chided.
Sometimes, the women mused about their happy childhood days.
"How happy I was in Petrograd," Maya said.
"I was also a happy child in our small village. I wanted nothing more than to write like Chekov," Anna said.
"You must curb your desire to write. If you are caught by the authorities, we will both be imprisoned. Oh how I wish my Pietr was here," Maya exclaimed sadly.
She sighed deeply and gazed out the window over her hot glass of tea, the traditional way Russians drink tea...a tall thick glass in a fine filagree holder, filled near to the top with tea flavored with dried orange rind and dusted with a bit of cinnamon or cloves. She held her hands close to the hot tea to keep them warm.
"It is the most difficult thing to be parted from loved ones," Anna said.
"Do you long for your parents?" Maya asked.
"I long for my parents as they were in the past. Our Belgorod village is no longer a cocoon where they are safe from outsiders who want to control them," Anna said.
"No one in Mother Russia is safe today. I hear whispers among the peasants. Our men are being sent to "the Eastern Front" and already Nikolai Nikolaevich has been named Commander-in-Chief by the Czar,"
"Will your Pietr go to there?"
"I do not have any letters from Pietr since he left. He fears writing to his own wife may be some type of code of insurrection and protest," Maya said.
"But, you are not a protester. You are a woman alone, thanks to the government," Anna said.
"Do you see? The authorities fear my anger at having my husband taken from me might cause me to start a protest!" Maya said, tears streaming down her face.
So much unhappiness in Tolyatti and so little hope.
"This endless bitter winter does nothing to help us hope for the better," Anna said.
"Life is an endless winter. We just don't know that when we are born," Maya said.
Anna had to agree. She lived a relatively happy life until she left college. Then, as if a curtain came down on the last act of a play with no audience to cheer on the players, life around her began to unravel.
The work in the shipping office made Anna feel insignificant. Yet, there was something about the paperwork that fascinated her. Tolyatti was growing as a shipping port. This meant more shipping papers to be checked and processed. If there was any value to her work, it was only the limited communication with men who required shipping invoices to be checked by Anna. The faces of these men told her that life beyond Tolyatti was not much better.
She adopted a philosophical mindset that she put into her writing. She described each man's face, his demeanor, speech and attitude. Most of these men rose from agricultural peasantry to a more urban status. Still, these were men who, in many ways, were pushed harder and harder by employers, most of whom represented the Czar.
Anna thought about that in great detail. She knew, even as a child, everything peasants had came from the ruling class. Most Russians knew this to be a fact of their lives.
Anna saw her writing taking a very different direction than she intended. Instead of being a descriptive collage of her people, it was almost impossible to avoid injecting the impact authority had on each individual's life. She was soon to discover the degree of this impact.
All around her, people were dividing into ideological groups she wanted no part of. There were the powerful Bolsheviki, led by Vladimir Lenin and Alexander Bogdanov. There were also the secret splinter groups such as those founded by Martov and Marx. It was enough to make Anna's head spin.
She had to ask herself if she could believe in "any" ideology other than the peace and tranquility taught to her by her parents. But in these times, peace and tranquility was scarce and seemed to be anathema to revolutionaries. She wondered if she would be drawn into the commoner's realm of ideology.
She considered men like Pavel visionaries who possessed the only reminders of a society where peace could produce greatness. She wrote of visionaries and revolutionaries in a manner she knew, if discovered by the authorities, could land her in a Siberian prison.
Inside the mind of every Russian is the drive to see people and events from the deepest level. This often causes misunderstandings and outright disagreements. The wealthy in Moscow do not want to know of the poverty in Tolyatti, just as the poor in Tolyatti do not want to be reminded of the consequences of protest in Petrograd. The thread that ties all Russians together is their undying love of country. They may dislike or openly hate their leaders, but they never hate their country.
It may be said if you do not want truth presented to you in the most direct form, don't ask a Russian the question. You will not like the brutally honest answer. Perhaps, the need to be so direct originates from the sectarian diversity that exists throughout the country. Anna pondered this idea. She made notes to herself to study the difference in the regions throughout Russia. Just not at this point in time. Such study and research could potentially expose her as a writer stirring up sectarian revolution.
Anna liked to look out the window and try to see Pavel's artistic view of the landscape as he would see it in full color and with its rough and smooth edges somehow blending into a unique world of its own. She used this panorama and converted it into the words in her writing. She hoped it is what her beloved author, Chekov, would have approved.
She spoke to no one of her writing, save Maya, who continually warned her of the dangers of putting such thoughts to paper. Maya knew living with a writer implicated her in the government's view of writers as dangerous dissenters. She knew that at this particular time in Russia's history, writers were considered more dangerous than an invading army.
Anna loathed war and warring men. Always men find something to disagree with or to go to battle over. At this juncture, the entire world seemed ready to kill themselves for some belief Anna didn't understand. If not for the deep interest in her secret writings, her job at the shipping office had grown dull as dish water and mentally tiresome. Not that it was physically demanding. It was routine and lacked any intellectual stimulation. To any writer, routine is a death sentence.
"Maya, maybe when spring comes we can go to my parents' home in Belgorod," Anna mused.
"You mean we can go if the local authority allows us to," Maya said.
Anna shrugged her lean, mostly bony shoulders. She'd lost weight she couldn't afford to lose since leaving her parents home. Food was becoming scarce and Maya and Anna had to become more prudent and creative about the food they were able to buy. The shops in Tolyatti were beginning to show signs of less availability of goods and with scarcity, higher prices.
"I am sorry, Anna. I do not mean to dissuade you."
Anna gave no response. It was true that if they left Tolyatti for any reason, they had to get the proper travel papers or they wouldn't get through checkpoints.
The next morning the two women woke to a blizzard. Russians endure blizzards as no others in the world, except perhaps indigenous peoples of the most notherly part of the country who were born to subzero climates.
Already, Maya had begun to shovel a path to the street. Young men and old awaken before dawn to shovel snow, while the women tended to the paths to the street. It was a ritual of life in Tolyatti.
As Maya shoveled, Anna dressed and hurried to help her. Anna noticed that the biting cold caused Maya's eyes to tear. Anna handed her a handkerchief to wipe her face to avoid the tears freezing and cracking her skin.
"It must be glorious to live in warmer temperatures. At least, tears do not freeze," Anna said, trying to lighten the moment.
"I am thinking of my Pietr. He lives amid blizzards every day," Maya said, wiping the tears from her face.
When the two women finished shoveling, they headed in different directions to their jobs.
While the women were at work, Maya's home was searched. Anna's journal was found. The two women arrived home and thought there had been a burglary. Anna hurried off to her room and quickly discovered her journal missing.
"This was not a burglary! Maya! My journal is gone! The authorities have discovered me. I am so sorry. I promise I will make sure they understand you knew nothing," Anna said.
For nearly two weeks, the silence after her journal had been stolen was deafening. Anna paced in front of the fireplace in the kitchen nervously. She knew what was coming. She wondered when the authorities would come for her.
She needn't have wondered. As soon as the deep snows melted, the authorities came to her place of employment. Without a word from either of the two burly politsiya, Anna was led away. She would never again see the shipping office. She looked back at the other workers. Their facial expressions told all: They had been working with a revolutionary.
The two men took her to Pietr and Maya's home and demanded Anna hand over her personal possessions and books. She had only written a total of three journals.
"All of them!" they shouted at her.
"These are the only journals I have written."
"And books you read? Where are they?"
"You want cooks books?" Anna asked.
A meaty hand came down across her face. She was glad she had not taken any of Chekov's books with her. They were at least safe in her parents home. Or, so she hoped. She wondered now if she would ever see her parents again. They were elderly and not much use to the authorities. She hoped they would not hold her parents responsible for what the government believed was her "violation."
Anna was taken first to a local place of confinement. She hoped she would be released quickly when the authorities realized her writing was not in any way offensive, merely her observations. She was wrong.
In her confinement, she met with at least two dozen others confined for various offenses. To her surprise, Pavel was one of them.
"Pavel! You are here too?" Anna said.
"We will be here for only a short time before they decide what to do with us," Pavel said.
"But, your art work and your gallery. What will become of them?" Anna asked.
"You know what will happen. What always happens when men in charge decide you do not fit into their regimental thinking. They will set fire to it," Pavel said.
Pavel was right. She was brought before a local judge. It seemed as if her punishment was already decided before she was allowed to plead innocent of the charges lodged against her. This was the first time Anna heard the word, "Cheka" the committee that brought punishment upon Russians dissenters considered "enemies of the state" by Lenin's standards.
Anna realized she was considered one of those "enemies of the state." Her captivity would endow her with experiences and greater knowledge of Russian obsession with political repression of thought by men whose only real concerns were absolute power.
One name, Tukhachevsky, seemed to instill terror in the hearts of those labeled "dissidents." In whispers, she heard the name and the words "bloodthirsty," "savage," and "murderer" linked together. For the first time in her life, Anna was afraid.
"Anna, stay away from those who whisper in this place," Pavel warned.
"I cannot help to overhear their whispers," Anna said.
"You must! Do not in any way appear to be one of them," he added.
"I am a long way from my parents and my future is unclear," Anna said, tears welling in her eyes.
"Confinement here means we will be sent to Kharkiv," Pavel said.
"Kharkiv?"
"The purges of enemies of the state are confined to camps in Kharkiv."
Several days later, Anna heard the engines of the miltiary trucks. As night fell, those in confinement were hurried into the trucks. Snow fell heavily as the trucks moved slowly along bumpy, icy dirt roads heading south to the camp in Kharkiv. No food was provided. The trip would last nearly one day when trucks deposited their human cargo in a camp in a heavily wooded area.
"Pavel, will they provide food for us?" Anna asked.
"Anna, even in Tolyatti, hunger has grown to be a monster. Hunger is out of control for all but the wealthiest. The authorities are stealing food for themselves and hoarding it or providing it to their foot soldiers to make sure they can fight," Pavel said.
The group was hustled into a long log building with small windows. When Anna was inside, she saw it was just a single room from the entrance to the rear wall. Already, the building contained nearly fifty others.
"Take to your cots and do not speak with each other. It is forbidden," one of the foot soldiers said.
From the looks of those already in captivity, Pavel was correct. They would be fed only what the soldiers threw in the garbage. Anna felt her stomach roiling.
When she lay on her cot, her stomach rumbling for sustenance, she realized she committed no crime and yet she was a criminal.
As the last days of winter passed Kharkiv, Anna and those confined in the camp became quite creative about finding food. The soldiers looked the other way at those who fed from the scrub brush that poked through the twelve foot high fence around the camp.
"Anna do you not remember an old friend?" a painfully thin man with a white beard and thinning hair asked.
Anna stood back to take in the man's image more fully.
"I am Andrei, remember? Andrei Zolotnik?"
Anna reached forward to hug Andrei; but, he pushed her away.
"No. Anna you must not show familiarity here in this place. It will bring further punishment if you are caught," Andrei said.
Anna was shocked at the sight of her old friend. They had met such a long time ago. Anna mused that it was the wild wind in Tolyatti that day that brought them together. But, Andrei was not a writer. Why was he here?
"Andrei, why are you here?" Anna asked.
"My great sin against the Motherland was to be a scientist who knew to much the government wanted kept secret," Andrei said.
He knew Anna didn't understand.
"When we met, it was Bolsheviks who were in control. Now, it is the Stalinist Communists. And peasant people must follow like sheep," Andrei said.
"Andrei, please. Take caution with your words," Anna said.
"How long have you been confined here?" she asked.
"Nearly from the moment we met," Andrei said.
"I don't understand. You were a scientist then?"
"No. I was like you, seeking a way to earn a living. I found I could write reports for college students. That was my mistake," Andrei said.
"How so?"
"Those reports I wrote grew more deeply into advanced science theories the authorities did not like. I should have realized that even our great places of learning are under the watchful eyes of authorities," he said.
"Oh, Andrei. I am so sorry."
"There were several learned professors...Genkov, Brodkin, Vostunovski and even Ulina Valenova were whisked away for their anti-Communist ideas.
"Genkov? Genkov was my mentor and professor at university! Please say he was not killed," Anna said.
"I cannot say. My guess is these men and women of higher education were sent to die in those Siberian labor camps," Andrei said.
Life in Kharkiv seemed an endless routine of waking up to biting cold in the winter, stifling heat in the summer and being allowed "exercise" only in the camp's enclosed grounds.
As the early 1930s arrived, the camp commanders' only relenting came when they brought one grain sack of barley and told the confined to grow their own food. They stored it in their own shoes and socks to prevent soldiers from stealing it.
"Andrei, this is inhuman. We grow food as we are ordered to and they steal what little there is," Anna said.
"Do not speak of it. Here in this prison encampment, your thoughts are forbidden and punishable. You recall what happened last month when Vladimir Rostov suddenly went missing? He didn't disappear. He was likely shot to death when they found he was hoarding grain under the mattress of his cot," Andrei said.
"Anna, there is something more. A German leader's army is said to be crossing into Poland and Hungary. I overheard two camp soldiers say Bulgaria is taking the side of the Germans," Andrei said.
Anna introduced Pavel to Andrei. The three tried to avoid the watchful eyes of camp soldiers. But, all three knew their comradery was not missed.
"Of course, Bulgaria would take the side of enemies of Soviets. They are a monarchy. The Bolsheviks hated the Czar and killed him to rid the motherland of a monarch," Pavel said.
"Bulgarians will soon know their trust in Germans will come to naught," Andrei put in.
"So, Russia is vulnerable now to this German horde?" Anna asked.
"Russia is vulnerable to no one. Germans are unused to Russia's cold and its strong, hardy people. They dare cross into Russian land and their armies will freeze to death," Andrei said.
"Do you think our country will ever be at peace?" Anna asked.
"I think peace in Russia is a vision, not a reality. We live each day fighting to survive hunger, starvation, cold and war," Pavel said.
"What will happen if Germany invades?" Anna asked.
"Germany may invade; but, it will never conquer Russia. We fight enough among ourselves. How would an enemy control that?" Andrei asked.
Anna fell asleep that night thinking about Andrei and Pavel's words. How she wished she could write! But, in this camp, all writing implements were confiscated on sight.
Then, Anna figured another way. In summer, she picked several sprigs of purple berries to use for ink. She fashioned a "pen" from a small dried, hollow stem of a weed. She used fabric from a torn blouse to write her thoughts. Then, she pinned the blouse to her undergarment where camp soldiers were not likely to look. They'd already torn up floor boards in search of "contraband."
Anna realized when creative people are forbidden from excising their minds, they find other avenues, nearly invisible to the soldiers to store these items.
One of the men in the camp had been a sculptor. He found stones outside of their building and carved them into small figures. The one he carved for Anna reminded her of the tiny ballerina statue she once had in her room in Belgorod. To the naked eye, it looked like an ordinary stone. When turned upside down, the image was obvious. Anna was amazed at the ingenuity and craftsmanship.
Always, there was work to be done. The men worked hardest or so it seemed to Anna. They were forced into trucks to work for the authorities at their summer homes.
In Russia, the hardiest farms grew root vegetables and grain crops like wheat, flax and barley. Sometimes the captives were deposited at large pig farms. The women were put to work creating flour from grains or preparing root vegetables to be marketed in Moscow. The days began at sun up. They were fed soup or mash twice a day, barely enough food to keep them alive. Yet, most of those in the camp proved to be survivors.
"Pavel, what will become of us when the Great War is over?" Anna asked.
"We are Russians in our blood. I suspect if they cannot keep us confined due to the high costs of the camps, they will release those they consider the least dangerous enemies of the state," he answered.
"Yes. But, you will live the rest of your life always like a bug under a microscrope," Andrei said.
Anna sometimes wondered if death might provide more freedom than life in the mother country. If she was going to be constantly watched by the government, how much freedom would she really have?
"Anna, you are a grown woman and quite a talented writer. It is the Russian writer who will save this country from itself. You know Russian leaders find it difficult to accept change. Use your memory of Chekov and his writings and your own to show the people life can be free and they truly do have choice.
"You are a visionary, Andrei Zolotnik," Anna said.
Anna knew Andrei Zolotnik's thoughts were always that of the visionary. Yet, she also knew that it is only in retrospect Russians learn from the mistakes of the past.
The Great War ended by 1945 and as Andrei predicted, Germans died at the Russian borders from the cold. Many believed the Great German leader's dream of controlling Russia was the reason his armies lost all their power.
As the world settled into a cold war, Andrei was right about Anna's future. The number of those confined dwindled over the years as older men and women died of starvation or labor exhaustion.
Now, at war's end all that remained were twelve captives: Anna, Andrei, Pavel, the sculptor Igor Zhenkov and eight others, from various parts of the country. All were released. But, it was as Andrei predicted. Each was returned to the town of village from whence they came so authorities could keep them always under constant surveillance.
In Tolyatti, a vigorous 67 year old Anna Chertova began putting her life experiences into a book. She completed her original book, "The Triumph of Tolyatti Peasants," as she planned, telling the story of Andrei, Pietr and Maya Voltenski and of course, Pavel Kustodiev.
Her new book would be titled, "The Sugar Beet Roots of Russian Women." The title was an indication of how Russian life is sweetest to those who plant their roots like the famous Russian sugar beet crops. Always the Chekovian metaphorist, Anna knew those who chose to read her book would understand the meaning.
Of the few friends she'd made in her lifetime, only Pavel remained. Maya begged the government to allow her to live with her husband in Yakutsk and they granted her appeal.
Alexei and Yelena Chertov died while Anna was in imprisoned in Kharkiv. Anna knew the watchful eyes of the Soviets, even in 1949, would make a trip to her parent's graves in Belgorod impossible. She was too old now to take the chance of offending the government. It would be another four years until the cruel Josef Stalin would die and Nikita Kruschev would replace him.
Anna Chertova's books were not best sellers and maybe never would be. But, her love of writing began with her love of Anton Chekov, Russia's greatest writer.
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