for they have never had to live without it

In Soviet times, works that were not passed by the censor for publishing were printed and read in any case. Manuscripts written within the Soviet Union were called samizdat (samvydav in Ukraine), meaning self-published, and those published abroad and smuggled into the country were called tamizdat or published there. The majority of these black market texts were brought to Kharkiv from Moscow, typed on paper so thin that the whole of Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago could be concealed in a traveler’s pocket. Then once in Kharkiv, it would be lent to a close friend for a couple weeks, during which time the friend would share it with other friends, on condition it be returned in 24 hours to be passed on. This is the story of one such friend.

The blue metal typewriter sits ignored on the desk in the corner of the room, looking sightlessly out the window. The ceiling light glints dully off the casing, and I notice a piece of stationary on the roller; a letter in the process of being composed.

If the typewriter could speak, what would it say? Would it describe its life; nostalgic for its youthfully prolific years, or lament the changes symbolized by the fact that its cousin the computer has become more popular? Would it speak of what it has seen, heard, read in this room? Would it tell us about its occasional outings to the majestic university building on Dzerzhinsky Square, where it would busily type up the results of the latest chemistry experiments, and letters to the dean requesting leave for the purposes of scientific research in the Far East or a trip to an internationally renowned conference in Yalta?

Would it break the code of secrecy and tell us who sat on this very sofa, on these chairs and discussed the issues of the day? Smoking cigarettes, drinking brandy and vodka, and raising questions about the basis of this society and the morality of the government. Would it tell us about the late evenings, when long after the rest of the apartment building was deep in slumber, the light still shone in the room and its occupant read a book, which was not a book, printed, but not published. Long hours when the only sound was the rustle of turning pages, punctuated finally, near dawn, by a long sigh of satisfaction, or a gasp, like that of a man coming up from the depths of the ocean and taking a deep breath.

And other evenings still when such a sheaf of papers lay beside the typewriter, and the typewriter itself was busy reproducing this text, several onion-skin papers inserted simultaneously, so that by typing a page once, it was reproduced five or six times. Word after glorious contraband word, typed in bold black letters, seemingly unaware of the dangers involved. Yawns in the morning on the way to work.

Would the typewriter mention that there was sometimes fear, or if not exactly fear a caution born of the knowledge that if anyone knew what it did late at night, there would be no more trips to the university, no chemistry experiments, or conferences. If the wrong person found out what books were on the shelves above the desk, there would also be retribution. This typewriter lived a kind of double life, one giving the intellectual freedom that the other denied.

Ah, but those were the days. Today the typewriter, although much loved, has less to write about. The shelves above he desk are now heavy with the published versions of the texts that were once illegal. No more need to type in the dead of night and no need to read speedily in order to pass the manuscript on to a trusted friend the next day. Now it is possible to pore over these works, appreciating every expensively bound word, savor every simile and discover fresh impressions.

But of a Sunday morning, with the first light illuminating the street, does the typewriter wonder whether it’s for the better? Does it remark upon the number of vendors setting up their wares on upside-down cardboard boxes all along the street and down into the main market? Does he see his old friends, Bulgakov, Platonov, Babel, Solzhenitsyn sitting forlornly on these boxes waiting for a buyer to take them home to a warm shelf? And what does the typewriter think, when he sees the face of the seller himself, torn between parting with his wares and receiving the compensation much needed to purchase some kolbasa for his children’s noontime sandwiches?

Perhaps it thinks that the profession has fallen on hard times, when titillating detective stories and Word for Dummies sell better than the works he remembers. Does he think it is at all connected with the rising star of the computer smirking in the next room, and does he regret those days?

Ah, but it is only a typewriter after all, and for all the letters, reports, agendas, experiments, and masterpieces it has typed, it cannot answer our questions.

But its owner can, and does, and the answer is no. To be nostalgic for the past, one would have to undervalue freedom, and those years reading forbidden manuscripts at night for fear that they would be discovered has taught one important lesson. Happy are those who do not appreciate their freedom, for they have never had to live without it.