By Klara GUDZYK, The Day
After almost a 10-year break I met my old friends, a Donetsk couple. We
remembered our common acquaintances ("Some are gone; others are far away")
and the times when "we were all young." Half an hour later, in spite of
a long separation, it seemed to us nothing had changed and we were all
the way we had been. Then somebody dropped a clunker: "And what do you
think about what is going on in the country, the Union? In fact, who or
what are you for or against?" And the conversation took quite a different
turn, for we, i.e., my guests and I, turned out to be on different sides
of that invisible and permanent barricade between us.
It would be an exaggeration to say we differed on everything, for we
cannot appraise differently or justify by any kind of logic the evil -
political and social - that disgraces our life today. However, my guests
appeared, as if born blind, not to have noticed a single sprout of hope,
a single bright ray over the past few years, even in their own life, although
something there has changed for the better also. To start with, Mr. N (let
us thus call him) has been writing poems, essays, and sketches all his
life. As far as I remember him, he dreamed of having at least a part of
his creative work, albeit a small book, printed. For all his attempts,
this required "before the new era" so many permissions, restrictions, recommendations,
decisions, censorship, and high protection that it was practically impossible
for an ordinary person, moreover, for someone not a member of the Writers'
Union. And now I have been presented by Mr. N with four books of his poems
published in the past few years. "Now money is the only problem," says
the author with a happy smile. "All I had to do was find a sponsor!" A
sponsor was found and is now financing my friend's fifth book. It might
seem that the fulfilled dream might override the author's many everyday-life
hardships. "What's that got to do with this?" Mr. N asks with irritation,
"Did the state help me?" He also does not want (or is not able?) to appreciate
his tremendous opportunity to express himself absolutely freely and write
everything he thinks about. Where would the author be now if only a pale
copy of his current criticism of the state system and the power-holders
had rung out in public some 10-15 years ago? Now he takes it for granted
and sheds tears over "stability," a 135-ruble pension, and respect for
war veterans. What is the use of that bureaucratic respect if his pretty
verses have seen the light of day! I can also remember other new circumstances
in the life of my friends. Such as, for example, regular foreign tours
for their talented son, visits by a married couple of their relatives in
Germany, where they also visit in return.
Meanwhile, Mr. N is gnawed by Communist nostalgia for equality, a nostalgia
that turned into traditional hatred for the rich, for those who managed,
one way or another (unfortunately, more often "another"), to achieve high
material well-being. To crown it, "they" do not share their wealth with
us (!). What about this? First, let them really share with us by paying
the relevant taxes (I only wish the authorities collected them). Secondly,
the rich do share (for instance, they publish other people's poems). The
main thing is different, after all. Each has his own talent: one makes
money, another writes poems and has to be happy with that. And the stormy
ocean of commerce is today open to all: dip in it if you are not afraid.
There was one more popular subject in our chats: the villas and luxury
mansions "they" build. I think for some reason that the new buildings in
good style, the restored old structures, and the decent interiors of various
public institutions are intended not only for the owner but also for each
of us. For we are surrounded by a whole city, not just an apartment. We
have lived enough among boxy barracks and tin- and plywood slums, let us
now feast our eyes on palaces. For Mr. N, such ideas are strange and unacceptable.
His motto is: let there be Donetsk slums, but all should be the same.
What especially struck me was the general atmosphere in certain Donetsk
circles of intellectuals which my guests conveyed. Their picturesque tales
formed a mosaic of a blank backwater province, a Ukrainian VendОe, where
everything is painted in monocolor; where there are no ethnic differences,
no sides, no parties (there is only the Party); where to be Ukrainian is
not only the ultimate plebeian shortcoming but also a danger of remaining
a pariah forever; where a wickedly distorted Ukrainian word for "independence,"
almost forgotten even by the Russian media, has preserved its primordial
freshness; where saucy jokes are being told about the Ukrainian language
(e.g. Pushkin's well-known verse "Will I fall down, with an arrow in my
chest?" is corrupted as "Will I fall down, clubbed on my head?"); and where
loyal, moderate, citizens dream of "an independent state as part of..."
As Talleyrand once said about France's pre-Revolutionary aristocracy, "they
have forgotten and learned nothing."






