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Voices from the gulag: Areview essayKarlis Racevskis aa Ohio State UniversityPublished online: 01 Mar 2007.

To cite this article: Karlis Racevskis (1993) Voices from the gulag: A review essay,Journal of Baltic Studies, 24:3, 299-306, DOI: 10.1080/01629779300000191

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VOICES FROM THE GULAG: A REVIEW ESSAY

Karlis Racevskis, Ohio State University

Anda Lice, ed., Via Dolorosa: Stalinisma upuru liect7ms [The Testimony of Victims of Stalinism] (Riga: Liesma, 1990). Pp. 604.

As the twentieth century draws to a close, we are yet to be fully apprised of all the horrors it spawned) An important step towards documenting more fully this tale of infamy was taken in Latvia more than a year before the declaration of its independence. On the 25th of March 1989, a special issue of Literatara un Maksla [Literature and Art] commemorated the mass deportations of June 14, 1941 and March 25, 1949 and outlined a systematic project of gathering and publishing materials and personal testimony documenting the experiences of the victims of Stalinism. The newspaper proposed specifically the collection and publication of all available accounts. This task was conceived in terms of three kinds of compendia: one was to include concrete data and would principally draw up lists of victims; another one would reproduce the eyewitness accounts of the victims, as well as photographic and other material evidence; a third kind would be of a purely literary nature and would collect the works of prose and poetry that were generated during the years of internment and forced exile.

In one regard, the proposal put forth by Literatara un Maksla was redundant since it was outlining a project that was well under way already. Indeed, the newspaper itself had by then become one of the most important vehicles for this kind of literature. A similar undertaking was also being considered by other organizations--by societies and clubs founded by the victims of Stalinist repression, by the Latvian Writers Union, and by committees formed to investigate the crimes of Stalin and his henchmen. Literatara un Mdksla also makes is the point that the need to document these crimes is especially pressing because time is running out: both victims and their tormentors are growing old and dying out. It is therefore important to gather the testimony of survivors who are still here to remember and it is urgent to begin identifying those officers of the slave labor camps who, after a meritorious and murderous career, have settled in Latvia, to enjoy retirement in the comfort of the most luxurious apartments in Riga and private villas along the Baltic shore. Thus one former inmate of the gulag observes that he finds it particularly galling to hear certain Russians on the streets of Riga using the particular insult aimed at Latvians that was characteristic of the language of labor camp guards.

JBS, Vol. XXIV, No 3 (Fall 1993) 299

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300 Karlis Racevskis

The most notable result of this project to document the crimes of Stalinism, to date, has been the publication, in 1990, of the first volume of this projected two-volume work. The volume contains 600 pages of testimony of various kinds: there are poems, memoirs, personal reflections and recollections, letters, and transcripts of tape-recorded narratives. Some of the authors present their texts in a first draft form and have since published fuller accounts in separate books. All of these text thus constitute what could be considered a particular genre or sub-genre, a mode of literary expression that has its own reason of being, its own special political and cultural significance.

The importance of this literature can be appreciated in several regards. It is, first, a corpus of historical documents that stands as a vivid indictment of an era, a regime, and of all those who were the willing participants in genocide. The memory of deportations is deeply and painfully etched in the collective psyche of Latvians. It is estimated that in all, between 200,000 and 300,000 persons---that is, from 10% to 15% of the total population--were deported in the Forties. 2 The deportations that took place on June 14, 1941 have been thoroughly documented; there is, for example, the book entitled These Names Accuse, which lists the names of some thirty-five thousand victims. 3 We know much less, however, about the victims of the 1949 and other later deportations and, to date, there have appeared relatively few first-person accounts of the experience of deportation, a Since the late eighties, the activity to publish such accounts has intensified and, as a result, we are now able to gauge more fully the scale and range of horrors perpetrated in the name of a brighter future for mankind.

This literature thus bears testimony to crimes committed against humanity. Via dolorosa is a most powerful document in this sense. Because it is a collective undertaking, it succeeds in evoking most tellingly the scope and barbarism of the Stalinist enterprise. To put it very simply, deportation was a highly efficient way of torturing people to death. The process was agonizingly painful and slow, yet required little active effort on the part of those responsible. There were of course the few sadists who entertained themselves in various ways by inflicting additional and exceptional doses of agony on some particularly unfortunate individual; in general, however, the conditions in which people had to live and work were sufficient to guarantee extraordinary suffering.

The whole process of deportation was designed to be both mentally and physically traumatic in the extreme. From the moment of arrest, the mental anguish and terror never eased: there was the banging on the door in the middle of the night; at the railroad station fathers and husbands were separated from the rest of the family; everyone was then herded into cattle cars and the long harsh journey toward an unknown fate began. For many Latvians, this trauma was inflicted twice; those who were deported in 1941 were allowed to return after the war, only to be deported again in 1949.

The train ride was but a prelude to the hellish reality of Siberia. Whether deportees wound up in the camps or the Siberian villages, existence was generally characterized by conditions that were close to unendurable. There was

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Voices from the Gulag 301

the constant lack of food, of adequate clothing, there was the unbearable cold and the attendant cases of frostbite that often turned gangrenous; there was the unending infestation by lice and other kinds of vermin, and there were the often deadly illnesses and infections---all conditions that were only aggravated by an inhuman work load. Death, as a result, was the normal and often merciful outcome; although the likelihood of death varied from place to place and was also determined by the age and gender of the deportee. The conditions of deportation were deadliest for men; very few survived, especially the deportation of 1941. For example, in the case of the camp of Vjatlaga, one of the rare instances where such deaths were documented, out of 4000 Latvian men sent there, about 300 came out alive. To survive, one had to be the beneficiary of unusual luck, or of a special job such as an assignment in bookkeeping or in the camp infirmary, or of some other extraordinary circumstances. Thus, if one played on a soccer team organized for the amusement of the guards, one received an extra bowl of soup. A grave digger enjoyed the privilege of licking out the soup bowls of the deceased.

The chances for survival were also slim for the very young. Women, who were sent with their children to various remote outposts of northern Siberia had the best prospects. One of the reasons for this was very simple: these were mothers whose uppermost concern was the survival and well-being of their children; this devotion and willingness to sacrifice their own well-being, even life, provided them with an endurance and strength that often verged on the superhuman. After retelling the horrifying tale of her experiences, Vineta Stud,~ne puts it very simply: "But we withstood it all--barefooted, without underwear, all the infections, the malaria, the lice, the hunger, the humiliations, because we were thinking of our children. It was a struggle for life, for survival." (414). In addition, the will to sacrifice not only applied in a narrow sense, to members of one's own family, but manifested itself more generally as a sentiment of solidarity and an unselfish concern for others, especially for the young ones: one woman remembers with gratitude the older Latvian women in her camp who willingly and regularly gave up a part of their starvation rations to supplement those of the younger women.

The literature of deportation is therefore also valuable in a way that all literature is: it tells us something about humanity in general, it discloses as yet unappreciated or unfamiliar facets of human character and potential. The literature of deportation provides us with a dramatic and revealing tale of survival in the face of overwhelming odds and incredible suffering. Ojars Ozolins, a survivor of the copper and iron ore mines of Dzezkazgana and a contributor to a collection of poems by a literary group of inmates, finds that the poetry in question gives us a valuable insight into "what a human being experiences when he sees himself and his people on the road to annihilation, it reveals the experience of someone who has been condemned to endless years of slave labor but who remains inflexible in his adherence to the eternally ancient spiritual values of his country and his people. ''5

This literature therefore tells us also something about a people, that is, about Latvians. In the first place, it reveals a certain character, a cultural

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302 Karlis Racevskis

conditioning that was often instrumental in ensuring survival. One is tempted to suppose that one result of seven hundred years of occupation by an assortment of foreign powers has been to develop, through a process of natural selection, a national genetic makeup that includes those characteristics necessary for survival in highly unfavorable, even life-threatening circumstances. Singing was one such strategy: "We sang," explains Irene Dumpe, "in order to forget hunger, in order not to cry--songs were our protectors, our saviors, they were dear to us, holy" (343). Although exceedingly rare, humor does occasionally lighten the narrative; a sculptor who is in charge of emptying latrines, decides one day to do a sculpture, and using the material at hand--which quickly solidifies in the sub- zero temperature---produces a statue of Stalin himself. The guards are thoroughly confused because they cannot decide whether to consider the action as an homage or as blasphemy.

Another important part of this strategy of survival was the process of writing, of recording everyday experiences, of meditating on them and transposing them in poetic form. Poetry was often the preferred medium because poems could be memorized and did not need to be written down. In the camps, only letter writing was allowed, and even then it was restricted---to one or two letters a year, in some cases. Any other kind of writing discovered in the course of the frequent searches was seized and the punishment reserved for the offender could further debilitate an already weakened constitution thus making the chances of survival even more precarious.

At the same time, it is obvious that the fear of discovery was not an effective deterrent because for many, any kind of intellectual or creative activity was as dear as life itself. It was an activity that provided a tenuous but essential link to rationality and humanity; it was an occasion for reflecting on a world gone mad, on a civilization regressing to a stage of utter barbarity. It was also a means of diversion, a way of disciplining one's mind, of turning thoughts away from an existence that threatened at every moment to become utterly unbearable. The creative act could also be made to acquire a quasi-magical, incantatory force and thus provide the individual with the capacity to transcend--if only in his or her imagination--the agony of the moment. A poem can thus become a prayer, or a mantra, a magical ritual that has the power to cast spells, to exorcise evil, and to curse evildoers.

Two themes are particularly common, because they are clearly deemed to possess the evocative force necessary to offset evil and to give the strength to endure. One such theme is the love of nature. Even here, in the frozen and deadly expanses of the polar circle, nature is beautiful and offers comfort; thus army lieutenant Arvids Lasmanis remembers that, "in spite of the suffering, my heart could not help but rejoice at the beautiful skies over the valley of death of Norilsk ... the endless expanse of crystal clear blue skies provided the soul with something akin to a respite, a comfort, a consolation" (96).

Another, even more frequent source of comfort and of strength is the thought of Latvia and the overwhelming, indestructible hope of returning home one day- - "The desire for our homeland, for Latvia, was like the air we

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Voices from the Gulag 303

breathed. It was the main thing on our minds: survive and return," explains Anda Burtniece (207). Even when the return became unlikely in body, it remained a certainty in spirit. This idea is put forth most eloquently by Arnolds Stubavs in a poem entitled "Uz Saules zemi":

Sirds sajQt atkal rudeni--- Dfiz step~ ziemelis gaudot s,~ks; Uz Latviju, uz saules zemi, Man laikam lidot neizn,aks. Bet liktenim es varu piedot, Jo g~jputnu k~]i debesis Manu dv~seli skali kliedzot, Uz Zilo kalnu aiznesis. 6

Certain aspects of what could be called a national character are also made manifest in the style in which these accounts are given. The way things are said, what is said, and what remains unsaid can be recognized as aspects of a characteristically Latvian cultural ethos. The dominating literary figure is understatement. There is very little rhetoric, emotional pathos, or invective. Of course, the events themselves are so dramatic that a minimalist rendering of experiences is perhaps the most effective and powerful means of narration. The experiences are also, literally unspeakable, beyond the capacity of human language to express. Thus the simplest, barest prose is deemed adequate. Here, for example, is the account given by Anda Burtniece, who was ten years old when she saw her little brother die: "He was exactly one year old when he left this world. I was standing by his bed, crying. Mommy was simply looking. He seemed to understand. Mommy asked me not to cry, she said it made it more difficult for him to die. I squatted by the bedside, so that my little brother would not see me. Every now and then, I got up to look at him. Then mommy put a finger to her lips and I understood that my little brother was leaving us" (201- 202). One additional mason for the sparsity of the prose is the simple fact that the narrators find it very difficult to speak of their experiences, the words are painful and speaking of these horrors means reliving them once more. It is likely, also, that not everything is told, by the women in particular, who will occasionally use the term "humiliation" or "degradation" without elaborating further.

Considering the endless suffering, the injustices, the tragic losses, and the wasted lives these narratives evoke, what is also striking is the calm resignation and the absence of hatred or of a desire for revenge that mark the concluding remarks made by the authors. Having recounted her work, which consisted of digging pits 20 feet deep and three feet wide in ground that was frozen solid, Veronika Goldmane concludes by asking, "how can you curse that place, where so much that remains has been built with my own hands? Where you have spent a good part of your youth, where so many tears have been shed, where I've experienced moments of joy, however brief?. "7 Speaking of the guards in her camp, Daina ~muldere-Q~rl~e notes, "I am not blood-thirsty. I understand that

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304 Karlis Racevskis

they were cogs in an enormous mechanism" (237). She only sounds bitter when she considers that, today, her guards are probably enjoying all the privileges of the nomenclatura: the special hospitals, the special stores, and the choicest apartments. At the same time, we should also note that, while no revenge or retribution are demanded, a certain ironic literary justice is achieved by the narratives. Literature of deportation restores the humanity of those who were no longer considered human but who were mere numbers or, as they were known in some camps, humans of the second order. The guards, on the other hand, are annihilated; they are practically non-existent; if they are evoked, it is only as anonymous, faceless figures, as the unthinking tools of a system gone stark raving mad.

In this regard, the experiences of the deportees also bear witness to the sheer insanity of the system whose victims they were. Frequent comments are made about the absurdity of the whole enterprise. Traditionally, Latvians have always had a strong work ethic; thus, frequently, those condemned to slave labor do not object to work as such but to the irrationality of it all: quotas are demanded, yet everything is done seemingly to prevent anyone from accomplishing them. The most capable, best educated are the most maltreated and the first to die. In addition, the food and living conditions often make productive work impossible. On the other hand, the dying is also made necessary by the never-ending flow of new-arrivals: the system is producing more prisoners than it can use. Consequently, the deportees were among the first to realize what used to be unthinkable in the West. For them, the evidence made it impossible not to think what was for a long time inconceivable for some of the greatest experts of the Soviet system: namely that Stalinism was no different from Hitlerism. Thus the two systems that were considered antithetical by definition turn out to be twins. It is this realization that motivates some to write about their experiences: "I find it very difficult to write," observes Daina ~muldere-Q~r~e, "And yet I write, for such things cannot vanish. Stalinism and Hitlerism are the shame of our century" (238).

The literature of deportees thus unites Stalinism and Hitlerism in yet another regard its role is akin to that played by the literature of the Holocaust. The aim of the literature of deportation is also to ensure that crimes against humanity not be forgotten. The victims of the Holocaust and of the Gulag have understood that the only hope for humanity lies in its capacity to remember; for this reason, and paradoxically, the literature of deportation, like the literature of the Holocaust, is a literature of hope: it speaks of the horrors to which it testifies by presenting them as the exception, not the rule in human conduct; it presents this history as the shameful counter-example we are urged never to forget. In doing this, it also calls to our attention the admirable tenacity of the human spirit, a quality exemplified by those whose testimony succeeds in lifting them---and us---above the horror of their experience.

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Voices from the Gulag 305

ENDNOTES

1. An earlier version of this essay was read in the Literature section of the 1992 AABS conference in Toronto.

2. See, for example, the special report of the House Select Committee on Communist Aggression, Communist Takeover and Occupation of Latvia, House Report No. 2684, Part 1, 83d Cong., 2d sess., 30 December 1954, 24-25. In his introduction to Via Doiorosa, J~is Stradig~ cites a much more conservative estimate of 120,000 to 160,000.

3. These Names Accuse: Nominal List of Latvians Deported to Soviet Russia in 1940-41, Stockholm: The Latvian National Foundation, 1951.2nd edition, Stockholm, 1982. Detailed accounts of communist terror and repression are to be found in: O. Freivalds, Liela sapju draudze [The Great Congregation of Suffering], Copenhagen: Imanta, 1952; and in several works by Adolfs ~ilde: Bez tiest'bam un brfvtT~as: Latvijas sovjetizacija 1944-1965 [Without Rights and Freedom: The Sovietization of Latvia], Copenhagen: Imanta, 1965; Pa deport~to p~dam: Latviegi padomju vergu darba [Following the Trail of the Deportees: Latvians in Soviet Slave Labor], New York: Gr'amatu Draugs, 1956; Pasaules revolacijas varda [In the Name of World Revolution], New York: Gr'amatu Draugs, 1983; Va~u rav~ji: Latviegu tauta ci~d pret okupacijas varu un komanismu [The Chain Breakers: Latvian People in Their Struggle against the Power of Soviet Occupation and Communism], Copenhagen: Imanta, 1960.

4. The notable ones are: Rasma Aizupe, Segpadsmit gadi Sibirija [Sixteen Years in Siberia], Toronto: Alta, 1974; J~nis Simsons, Vorkutas gastek¢a stasts [The Story of a Prisoner in Vorkuta], Lincoln, Neb.: Vaidava, 1965; Lilija Zariqa, Sarkana migla [The Red Fog], Toronto: Daugavas Vanags, 1968; also to be mentioned is the wrenching account of a girl who was fourteen when she was deported with her family: RQtiga U., V~! ta grib~jas dzFvot [I Wanted So to Live], New York: Gramatu Draugs, 1977. The diary was also published as Dear God, I Wanted to Live in an English translation that is, unfortunately, inept. The work has, in addition, been translated in German. Of the authors included in Via dolorosa, the following have brought out work in separate publications. The poems of Janis Medenis are assembled in the cycles "Putnu cel~" liThe Path of Birds], "Norilskas vainags" [The Crown of Norilsk], and "Ziemelu el~gijas" [Northern Elegies] in vol. 4 of his complete works, Raksti IV, Grand Rapids: Aiviekste, 1988. Mel~nija Vanaga has published the book-length narrative Velupes krasta, 1941-1957 [On the Shores of the River of Departed Souls], Riga: Liesma, 1991. The poems in which Bronislava Martu~eva

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306 Karlis Racevskis

records her Siberian experience have been collected in her Celu Krusti [Road Crosses], Riga: Liesma, 1990.

5. Literatara un Mdksla, 25 March 1989, p. 9.

6. Literatara un Mgtksla, 25 March 1989, p. 8. An approximate translation: "My heart feels autumn coming--soon winter gales will howl over the steppes; this time, I doubt I will ever fly back to Latvia, the land of the sun. Yet I can forgive the fates, for I know the noisy flights of the migrating birds in the sky will carry my soul back to the Blue mountain."

7. Literatara un M~sla, 21 January 1989, p. 13.

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