T R A N S L A T E D BY

MICHAEL HENRY HEIM

What makes T h e Encyclopedia of the Dead

u n iqu e is the way it depicts hum an relation­
ships, encounters, landscapes— the m ulti­
tude o f details that make up a hum an life. It
records everything. After all, noth ing in the
history of m ankind is ever repeated, things
that at first glance seem the same are scarcely
even sim ilar; each in d ividu al is a star unto
him self, everything happens always and
never, a ll th in g s repeat th em selves ad
infinitum yet are unique.

Such is the majestic tome in the title story of

D anilo K is’s new collection. In the En cyclo­
p e d ia , housed in an icy, d u n geon -lik e
Swedish library, a bereaved daughter reads
through the night the entry about her father,
an ordinary Yugoslav. His whole life is set
out: every fish caught, every plant ever
picked; the lyrics of songs, the text of a love
letter; a romance with the sea and, at the
end, a sudden passion for painting flowers.
T h e style of the E n c y c lo p e d ia — “ an
unlikely am algam of encyclopedic concise­
ness and biblical eloquence” — is also Danilo
K is’s, and this volum e is his Book of the
Dead. In each of the nine stories, or entries—
whether the account of Sim on M agus’s revolt
against the divine order, of the lavish funeral
accorded a prostitute in 1920s H am burg, of
the execution of the H ungarian aristocrat
Esterhazy, or of the fate of the lost correspon­
dence of the Yiddish poet Mendel O sipo­
vich— love alone is as immutable as death.
BOSTON
PUBLIC
LIBRARY
T H E E N C Y C L O P E D I A

OF T H E D E A D
B Y D A N I L O K l S

Garden, Ashes

A Tomb fo r Boris Davidovich

The Encyclopedia o f the Dead

 Translation copyright €> 1989 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
All rights reserved
Originally published in Serbo-Croatian under the title EncikJopedija
mrtvih C Darulo K ii and Globus, 1983
Published simultaneously in Canada by Collins Publishers, Toronto
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 1989
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publicatum Data
Kii, Danilo. The encyclopedia of the dead.
Translation of: Enciklopedija mrtinh.
Contents: Simon Magus—Last respects—The
encyclopedia of the dead—[etc.]
P G 14 19 .2 1.I8 E 5 13 1989 891.8'235 88-31877

Portions of this book have appeared, in slightly different form,

in Antaeus, Cross Currents, Formations, Harper's, and Partisan
Revirw. The tide story, in a different translation, appeared
in The New Yorker
 C O N T E N T S

Simon Magus
• 1 •

Last Respects
• 25 •

The Encyclopedia o f the Dead

• 37 ‘

The Legend o f the Sleepers

• 67 •

The M irror o f the Unknown

• 95 *

The Story o f the Master and the Disciple

•ill*

To Die fo r One’s Country Is Glorious

* 1 23 •

The Book o f Kings and Fools

* !33 *
Red Stamps with Lenin’s Picture
* 175 •
Postscript
* 191 •
M a rage d ’aimer donne sur la mort
comme une fenetre sur la cour.
G E O R G E S B A T A IL L E
Simon Magus
 [ 1 ]

S e v e n te e n years after the death and m iraculous resurrection

o f Je su s the N azarene, a m an nam ed Sim on ap p eared on the
dusty roads that crisscross Sam aria and vanish in the desert
beneath the fickle sands, a m an whom his disciples called the
M agus and his enem ies derided as “ the B o rb o rite.” Som e
claim ed he had com e from a m iserable Sam arian village
nam ed Gitta, others that he was from Syria or Anatolia. It
cannot be denied that he him self contributed to the confusion,
an sw erin g the most innocent questions about his origins with
a w ave o f the hand broad enough to take in both the
n eigh borin g ham let and h a lf the horizon.
H e was braw ny and o f m edium height, and his black
curly hair had begun to thin at the top; his beard, also curly
and unkem pt, was flecked with gray. H e had a hooked, bony
nose and a sheep-like profile. O ne o f his eyes was larger than
the other, givin g his face a som ewhat sarcastic expression. In
his left ear he w ore a gold earrin g: a snake swallowing its
tail. His waist was w ound several times round with a flaxen
rop e, which served as a p rop fo r his circus tricks: suddenly
it w ould rise straight into the air, and he would scram ble up
it— b efo re the spectators’ w on derin g eyes— as he m ight scram ­

* 3 '
ble up a bean pole. O r he w ould tie it around the neck o f a
c a lf and then, uttering a m agic form ula, chop its head o ff
with a single slice o f the sw ord. F or a m om ent, head and
body lay severed in the desert sand, but then the m iracle
w orker pron ou nced the m agic form ula— backw ards, this
time— and the head reattached itself to the body. Picking up
the rope, which had rem ained in the sand, he w ould un do
the knot and wind it aroun d his waist again, unless a m em ber
o f the audien ce wished to verify the fiber’s com position. H e
would then hand him one end o f the stiff rope as if o fferin g
him a stick; the m om ent the skeptic took hold o f it, it would
go lim p and fall to the earth, raising a cloud o f dust.
H e was as fluent in G reek and Coptic as he was in
A ram aic and H ebrew , and knew various local dialects, though
his enem ies claim ed he spoke each o f the languages with a
strong accent. Sim on paid scant heed to such rum ors and
even gave the im pression o f en cou raging them. He was said
to be quick-witted and an excellent orator, especially when
ad d ressin g disciples and follow ers or the crow ds that flocked
to h ear him. “ T h e n his eyes would shine like stars,” said one
o f his disciples. “ He had the voice o f a lunatic and the eye o f
a lech er,” noted one o f his adversaries.
A lo n g the tangled roads leading from East to West and
West to East, Sim on M agus crossed paths with a great m any
preach ers. T h e disciples o f Jo h n and Paul— and Jo h n and
Paul them selves— w ere then en gaged in sp read in g the w ord
o f Je s u s the N azarene, whose m em ory was still alive in
Palestine, Ju d a e a , and Sam aria; and Sim on frequently dis­
covered their sandal tracks at the entrance to some village.
T h e village would be strangely peaceful at that time o f day,
the only noise the barkin g o f a d og or the resonant bleating
o f a sheep. T h e n , itself very m uch like brayin g, cam e the

• 4 *
distant sound o f m ale voices, resounding and clear, though
as yet not quite intelligible. T h e y belonged to the Apostles,
who, perched on wobbly barrels, w ere preaching the p erfec­
tion o f the w orld and o f G o d ’s Creation. Sim on w ould hide
in the shade o f a hovel, waiting fo r them to d epart, and enter
the village b efo re the people had com pletely dispersed.
T h en , su rro u n d ed by his escort, he w ould him self begin
to preach. W orn out by the A postles’ w ords o f wisdom , the
crow d was less than eager to gather round. “ W e’ve ju st seen
o ff Paul and Jo h n ,” they w ould say to him. “ W e’ve had enough
w ords fo r a y ear.”
“ I am not an A p ostle,” Sim on w ould say. “ I am one o f
you. T h e y place their hands on you r heads to inspire you
with the H oly Ghost; I hold out my hands to raise you up
from the dust.” W hereupon he would lift his arm s skywards,
his w ide sleeves sliding down in graceful folds to reveal a
p air o f beautiful white hands and the fine fingers foun d only
am ong idlers and illusionists.
“ T h e y o ffe r you eternal salvation,” Sim on w ould go on.
“ I o ffe r you know ledge and the desert. A ll who so wish m ay
jo in m e.”
T h e people w ere used to every kind o f w an d erer from
every direction, though m ostly from the East— now alone,
now in pairs, now accom panied by a crowd o f believers. Som e
left their m ules and camels outside the village o r at the foot
o f the m ountain o r in the next valley; others arrived with an
arm ed escort (and their serm ons w ere m ore like threats or
playacting); still others rode in on their m ules and, without
even dism ounting, launched into acrobatic tricks. B u t fo r the
past fifteen years o r so, since the death o f a certain N azarene,
the visitors had tended to be youn g and healthy, with carefully
trim m ed beards o r no beards at all, and w ore white cloaks,

* 5 *
carried sh ep h e rd ’s staffs, and called them selves Apostles and
sons o f G od . T h e ir sandals w ere dusty from the long jo u rn e y ,
their w ords so m uch alike they seem ed to have been learned
from the sam e book; they all referred to the same m iracle,
which they had them selves witnessed: the N az iren e had
turn ed w ater into wine b efore their eyes and fed a large
crow d with a few sardines. Som e claim ed to have seen Him
rise up to the sky in a dazzling light and reach heaven like a
dove. T h e blind, whom they brought with them as living
witnesses, claim ed that the light had taken away their sight
but given them spiritual enlightenm ent.
A n d they all called them selves sons o f G od and sons o f
the Son o f G od. For a chunk o f bread and a ju g o f wine they
prom ised bliss and life everlasting; and when the people
chased them from their doors, setting their fierce dogs upon
them , the p reach ers threatened them with an everlasting hell,
w here their flesh would burn over a low flam e like a lam b
on the spit.
T h e re w ere, how ever, fine speakers am ong them , m en
who knew how to give the suspicious crowds and the even
m ore suspicious authorities answers to num erous com plex
questions con cern in g not only the soul but the body, anim al
hu sban dry and farm in g. T h e y cured youn g men o f pim ples
and instructed youn g girls in the hygiene o f preservin g their
virginity and bearin g it m ore easily; they counseled the elderly
about prep aration fo r death, about what w ords to utter at
their m ortal h o u r and how to cross their arm s to slip through
the narrow s leadin g to the light; they told m others how to
save their p ro gen y without expensive sorcerers and potions,
and how to keep their sons from going to w ar; they taught
b arren w om en clear and sim ple prayers to say three times a
day on an em pty stom ach so that the H oly Ghost— as they
called it— m ight m ake their wombs fru itfu l.

• 6 •
 A n d they did it all fo r nothing, at no cost, excepting the
crust o f bread they gratefu lly accepted o r the bowl o f cool
w ater they d ran k in small gulps, m urm u rin g in com prehen­
sible w ords. From the fo u r corners o f the earth they came,
one after the other, with various customs and tongues, with
beards and without, but all bearin g m ore or less the same
m essage, one confirm ing what the other proclaim ed, and
ap art from a slight variation in detail and a few m inor
inconsistencies, the tale o f the m iracles and resurrection o f
the N azaren e began to gain authenticity. T h e people o f
Ju d a e a , Sam aria, and A natolia grew accustom ed to the peace­
able yo u n g m en in dusty sandals who crossed their hands
o ver their chests, spoke in virginal voices, and sang with their
eyes raised to heaven. T h e y gave the youn g m en cool w ater
and crusts o f bread, and the youn g m en thanked them and
prom ised them life everlasting, describing a w ondrous land
they w ould rep air to once they died, a land w here there was
no desert, no sand, no snakes o r spiders, only b road-fron ded
palm s, springs with ice-cold w ater, grass that grew to knee-
level, and above, a m ild sun, nights like days, and days that
n ever en d ed ; a land w here cows grazed, goats and sheep
brow sed in the pastures, flowers sm elled sweet all year roun d,
sp rin g lasted fo rever, w here there w ere no crows, no eagles,
only nightingales that sang all day. A n d so on.
T h is picture o f the gardens o f paradise, which everyone
initially reg ard ed as ridiculous and im possible (who had ever
seen a place w here the sun always shone and there was no
pain o r d eath?)— this picture the gentle, blue-eyed youn g
m en evoked with such conviction, such inspiration, that
p eople cam e to believe them. W hen a lie is repeated long
en ough, people start believing it. Because people need faith.
M any yo u n g m en donned long-laced sandals and set o ff with
them . Som e return ed to their villages after a year o r two,

. ? .
 others after ten years. T h e y return ed exhausted from their
long jo u rn e y s, their beards speckled with white. T h e y spoke
softly now too, their hands crossed over their loins. T h e y
spoke o f His m iracles, o f His teaching, they preached His
strange laws, scorned the pleasures o f the flesh, dressed
m odestly, ate m oderately, and used both hands to raise the
chalice to their lips when d rin kin g wine. Y et if som eone
contradicted them , if som eone cast doubt on their teaching
and His m iracles, if som eone— woe unto him !— questioned
the life everlasting and the garden s o f paradise, then they
w ould fly into a sudden rage. T h e y w ould describe the tortures
o f eternal expiation with vigorous and violent words, m en ­
acing and fiery w ords. “ M ay the gods keep you ,” a pagan
w rote, “ from their evil tongues and im precations.”
V T h e y knew how to win over skeptics with flattery and
prom ises, bribes and threats; and the m ore their pow er
sp read and their follow ers increased, the stro n ger and m ore
arro gan t they grew . T h e y blackm ailed fam ilies, sowed discord
in the m inds o f individuals, hatched plots against anyone
who exp ressed the slightest mistrust o f their doctrine. T h e y
had their own firebrands and rabble-rousers, their own secret
tribunals at which they pronounced m aledictions and sen­
tences, bu rn ed the w ritings o f their enem ies, and cast an a­
them as on the heads o f recalcitrants. People jo in ed them in
ever-in creasin g num bers because they rew arded the faithful
and punished the rebellious.
It was at this time that Sim on, called the M agus, m ade
his ap p earan ce.
Sim on p reach ed that the G od o f the Apostles was a
tyrant and that a tyrant could not be G od to sensible men.
T h e ir G o d —-Jehovah, Elohim — abom inates m ankind, chokes
it, slaughters it, visits pestilences and wild beasts upon it,

• 8 •
serpents and tarantulas, lions and tigers, thun der and light­
ning, plagues, leprosy, syphilis, tempests and gales, droughts
and floods, nightm ares and sleeplessness, the sorrows o f
youth and the im potence o f age. H e has allotted ou r blessed
ancestors a place in the gardens o f paradise, but deprived
them o f the sweetest fruit, the only one that m an deserves,
the only one that distinguishes him from the dog, the cam el,
the ass, and the m onkey— the know ledge o f good and evil.
“ A n d w hen o u r un fortun ate ancestor, driven by curiosity,
wished to seize that fruit, what did their Elohim , yo u r Elohim ,
the Ju s t, the G reat, the A ll-P ow erful— what did he do then?
E h ?” Sim on shouted, teetering on the wobbly barrel. “ Y o u
know very well. (Y ou r apostles— his servants and slaves— tell
you in their serm ons day after day.) H e chased him o ff like
a leper, a pariah , chased him m ercilessly, with a fiery sword.
A n d why? B ecause he is a G od o f anim osity, o f hatred and
jealo u sy. In place o f freedo m he preaches slavery, in place
o f pleasure deprivation, in place o f know ledge dogm a . . . O
people o f Sam aria, has not you r vindictive G od destroyed
y o u r houses? Has he not inflicted drou gh t and locusts upon
you r fields? Has he not turned out dozens o f yo u r leprous
n eighbors? Did he not, only a year ago, lay waste to you r
village with a terrible plague? W hat kind o f G od is he, what
kind o f justice is his— fo r you r apostles call him ju st— if he
continues even now to w reak his vengeance on you fo r a so-
called sin com m itted by distant ancestors? W hat kind o f
ju stice is his i f he visits plagues, thunder and lightning,
pestilence, sorrow , and m isfortune upon you fo r no other
reason than that yo u r ancestors, driven by curiosity, by that
living fire which en gend ers know ledge, dared to pluck the
apple? N o, people o f Sam aria, he is no G od ; he is an avenger,
he is a brigan d , an outlaw, who with his angelic hosts— arm ed

* 9 •
to the teeth, arm ed with fiery swords and poisoned arrow s—
stands in y o u r path. W hen your figs ripen, he sends down a
blight upon them ; and when your olives ripen, he sends
dow n a storm to tear them from the trees and hail to pound
them into the dirt and turn them to m ud; when y o u r sheep
brin g forth a lam b, he visits a plague upon them o r wolves
o r tigers to devastate the fold; and when you have a child,
he visits convulsions upon it to cut short its life. W hat kind
o f G od is he, what kind o f justice is his if he does all this?
N o, he is not G od , he is not the O ne who is in heaven, he is
not E loh im ; he is som eone else. F or Elohim the C reato r o f
heaven and earth, o f man and wom an, o f every fowl o f the
air and everyth in g that creepeth upon the earth, the C reato r
o f every living thing, the O ne who raised up the m ountains
above the seas, the O ne who created the seas and the rivers
and the oceans, the green grasses and the shade o f the palm
tree, sun and rain, air and fire— that is Elohim , the G od o f
justice. A n d the one w hose teachings Peter and Jo h n and
Paul and their disciples have taught you— he is a brigand and
a m u rd erer. A n d all that Jo h n and Paul, Ja m e s and Peter tell
you about him and his kingdom — hear, O people o f S a­
m aria!— is a lie. T h e ir chosen land is a lie, their G od a lie,
their m iracles false. T h e y lie, because their G od, to whom
they sw ear allegiance, is false; they lie incessantly and, having
thus en tered into a great m aelstrom o f lies, no lon ger even
realize they are lying. W here everyone lies, no one lies; w here
everythin g is lies, nothing is a lie. T h e kingdom o f heaven,
the kingd om o f justice is a lie. E very attribute o f their God
is a lie. T h a t he is righteous— a lie. T ru th -lovin g— a lie. O ne
and O nly— a lie. Im m ortal— a lie. T h e ir scriptures are false
because they prom ise lies; they prom ise paradise, and p ara­
dise is a lie because it is in their hands, because they are the

1o •
ones who stand at the gates o f paradise, their angels with
fiery swords and their ju d g e s with false scales.”
T h e people listened to him with indifference and mistrust,
as a crow d listens to dem agogues— seeking hidden m eanings
behind obscure words. For they w ere accustom ed to hearin g
the authorities, the Pharisees, m en with pow er, use sweet-
sound ing prom ises to conceal wiles, threats, and extortions,
and expected this m an, too, to declare his intentions, to state
at last w hy he had com e, to give the reason fo r his em pty
w ords, his vague and confusing prattle. T h at is why they kept
listening. A n d because they hoped he w ould cap his m uddled
rem arks with an acrobatic trick or a m iracle.
“ T h e kingdom o f heaven rests on a foundation o f lies,”
Sim on continued, staring into the merciless sun, “ and its ro o f
has two slopes: white lies and black lies. T h e ir scriptures are
com posed o f false w ords and m ysterious laws, and each law
is a lie: ten laws, ten lies . . . It is not en ough that their
Elohim is a tyrant, a vindictive tyrant, and as cross as a
crotchety old m an; no, they want everyone to venerate him,
to fall at his feet, to think o f nothing else but him ! T o call
him , that tyrant, the O ne and Only, A ll-Pow erful, and R ight­
eous G od . A n d to subm it to him alone! W ho are they, O
p eople o f Sam aria, these charlatans who com e to you and fill
you r ears with lies and false prom ises? T h ey are people who
have secured his m ercy fo r them selves and wish you to submit
w ithout a m urm u r, to su ffer all the trials o f existence—
torm ents, pestilences, quakes, floods, plagues— without curs­
ing him . W hy else w ould he forbid you to take his nam e in
vain? T h e y are lies, all lies, I tell you! T h e things you hear
from P eter and Paul, the white lies and the black lies o f his
disciples— they are all one big, d read fu l hoax! W hence: thou
shalt not kill! K illing is what he does, their O ne and Only,
A ll-P ow erfu l, and R ighteous G od! H e is the one who smites
infants in their cradles and m others in childbirth and toothless
old m en! K illin g is his vocation. W hence: thou shalt not kill!
Leave the killing to him and his! T h e y are the only ones
called to it! T h e y are destined to be wolves, you to be sheep!
Y ou m ust give yourselves up to their laws! . . . W hence: thou
shalt not com m it adultery, that they may carry o ff the flower
o f thy w om anhood. A n d w hence: thou shalt not covet thy
n eigh b or’s goods, fo r thou hast no reason to envy him. T h e y
dem and everyth in g o f you— soul and body, spirit and
thought— and give you prom ises in exchan ge; fo r your cu r­
rent subm ission and you r cu rren t prayers and your current
silence they give you a crazy quilt o f false prom ises: they
prom ise you the future, a futu re that does not exist . . .”
Sim on did not notice, o r m erely p retended not to notice,
that the people had dispersed and that his only rem aining
audience consisted o f those who called them selves his disci­
ples. All the while, his faithful com panion Sophia had been
w iping the sweat from his foreh ead and passing him a pitcher
o f w ater, which had turned lukew arm even though she had
kept it d eep in the sand.
Sophia was a small wom an o f about thirty, with thick
hair and d ark eyes like sloes. O ver her bright, transparent
cloak she w ore colorful silk scarves, probably purchased in
India. Sim on ’s disciples described her as the epitom e o f
wisdom and fem inine pulchritude, while the Christian pil­
grim s sp read all sorts o f rum ors about her; nam ely, that she
was a flirt, a tram p, a tease, a hussy, and an im postor who
had fou n d grace in the eyes o f her im postor o f a com panion
in a Syrian brothel. Sim on n ever denied it. H er fo rm er life
as a slave and concubine served him as an obvious exam ple,
exam p le and lesson, o f Je h o v a h ’s brutality and the cruelty o f

1 2 •
this w orld. T h a t Fallen A n gel, that Stray Sheep, he m ain­
tained, was m erely a victim o f G o d ’s brutality, a Pure Soul
im prisoned in hum an flesh, her spirit having m igrated fo r
centuries from vessel to vessel, from body to body, from
shadow to shadow. She was L o t’s daugh ter and she was Rachel
and she was F air H elen. (In other words, the G reeks and the
b arbarians had ad m ired a shadow and shed blood over a
phantom !) H er most recent incarnation had been as a pros­
titute in the Syrian bawdy house.
“ B u t m eanw hile,” Sim on continued, having spit out a
m outh ful o f the lukew arm w ater upon glim psing a band o f
pilgrim s in white cloaks em ergin g from the shade o f the
houses, m en in w hom he recognized Peter and his disciples
arm ed with sh ep h erd ’s staffs. “ B u t m eanwhile— beneath the
m urky shroud o f the heavens, within the d ark walls o f the
earth, and in the du ngeon o f existence— despise wealth, as
they teach you, deny the pleasures o f the flesh, and scorn
w om an, that cup o f nectar, that u rn o f bliss, in the nam e o f
their false p aradise and out o f fear o f their false hell, as i f
this life w ere not hell . . .”
“ Som e choose the earthly kingdom , others the king­
dom o f heaven ,” said Peter, leaning on his staff with both
hands.
“ O nly he who has known wealth m ay despise it,” said
Sim on, squinting his larger eye at Peter. “ O nly he who has
know n poverty m ay ad m ire it. O nly he who has experien ced
the pleasures o f the flesh m ay deny them .”
“ T h e Son o f G od experien ced su fferin g,” said Peter.
“ His m iracles are p ro o f o f His righteousness,” one o f
P eter’s disciples interjected.
“ M iracles are no p ro o f o f righteousness,” Sim on re ­
sponded. “ M iracles serve as p ro o f only fo r the gullible, the
m ultitude. T h e y are nothing but a craze introduced by your
m iserable Je w , the one who ended on the cross.”
“ O nly he who has the pow er to p erform m iracles may
speak as you d o ,” Peter objected.
T h e n Sim on ju m p e d down from the wobbly barrel and
landed eye-to-eye with his challenger. “ I will now fly up to
the sky,” he said.
“ I should like to see it,” Peter replied, with a quiver in
his voice.
“ I know the extent o f my pow er,” said Sim on, “ and I
know I cannot reach the seventh heaven. B u t I shall go
throu gh six. O nly thought can reach the seventh, because
the seventh heaven is all light and bliss. A n d bliss is denied
m ortal m an .”
“ E n o ugh philosophizing,” said one o f P eter’s disciples.
“ I f you reach even that cloud up there, we shall respect you
as we do the N azaren e.”
H earin g that there w ere some unusual doings afoot ju st
outside the village, n ear the large olive tree, and that the
chatterbox was at last about to do one o f his fak ir’s tricks, a
crow d gath ered round again.
“ Don't be gone too lon g,” one o f the spectators called
out m ockingly. “ In fact, why not leave som ething behind as
security?”
Sim on unw ound the flaxen rope from his waist and
placed it at his feet. “ It is all I h ave.”
A n d Sophia said, “ T a k e this scarf. It’s cold up there, as
cold as at the bottom o f a w ell.” A n d she put the scarf around
his neck.
“ T h ese preparation s are taking too lon g,” said Peter.
“ H e is w aiting fo r the sun to go dow n ,” added one o f
P eter’s disciples, “ so he can run for it u n d er cover o f night.”

• 14 •
 “ G oo d bye,” said Sim on, kissing Sophia on the foreh ead.
“ Farew ell,” said one o f P eter’s disciples. “ Watch out you
d o n ’t catch cold !”
Sud den ly Sim on flapped his arm s and pushed o ff the
gro u n d with both legs, like a cock, raising a cloud o f dust
beneath his sandals.
“ C ock-a-doodle-doo!” a jo k e r cried, a sm ooth-cheeked
youn g m an with shrew d eyes that turned to slanting slits
w hen he laughed.
Sim on glanced over in his direction and said, “ It’s not so
easy, m y boy! T h e earth exerts a hold on all bodies, on the
m erest feath er, to say nothing o f a hum an w reck o f some
two h u n d red p oun d s.”
Peter was unable to stifle his laughter at Sim on’s sophistry,
an d had to hide it in his beard.
“ I f you w ere as good at flying as you are at philosophy,”
said the jo k e r, “ yo u ’d be soaring through the clouds by now .”
“ Philosophizing is easier than flying, I adm it,” said Sim on,
with sorrow in his voice. “ Even you know how to chatter,
though n ever once in you r m iserable life have you w renched
yo u rse lf so m uch as a foot o ff the groun d . . . A n d now let
m e collect m y strength and m y thoughts and focus with
everythin g I have on the h o rro r o f ou r earthly existence, on
the im perfection o f the w orld, on the m yriad lives torn
asu n der, on the beasts that d evour one another, on the snake
that bites a stag as it grazes in the shade, on the wolves that
slaughter sheep, on the mantises that consum e their males,
on the bees that die once they sting, on the m others who
labor to b rin g us into the w orld, on the blind kittens children
toss into rivers, on the terror o f the fish in the w hale’s entrails
an d the terro r o f the beaching whale, on the sadness o f an
elephant d yin g o f old age, on the butterfly’s fleeting jo y , on

* 15 •
the deceptive beauty o f the flower, on the fleeting illusion o f
a lovers’ em brace, on the h o rro r o f spilt seed, on the im po­
tence o f the agin g tiger, on the rotting o f teeth in the m outh,
on the m yriad dead leaves lining the forest floor, on the fear
o f the fled glin g w hen its m other pushes it out o f the nest, on
the in fern al torture o f the worm baking in the sun as if
roasting in living fire, on the anguish o f a lovers’ parting, on
the h o rro r know n by lepers, on the hideous m etam orphoses
o f w om en ’s breasts, on w ounds, on the pain o f the blind . .
A n d all at once they saw the m ortal body o f Sim on
M agus detach itself from the groun d, rise straight up, higher
and h igher, arm s beating like fish gills, subtly, almost im p er­
ceptibly, hair and beard stream ing in gentle flight, floating.
N ot a cry, not a breath could be heard in the silence that
sudd enly settled upon the crow d. T h e y stood stock-still, as if
d u m b fo u n d ed , their gaze fixed on the sky. Even the blind
rolled their vacant, milky eyes upw ards, fo r they, too, had
grasped w hat the sudden silence meant, w here the crowd
had directed its attention, w here all heads w ere turned.
Peter stood petrified too, his m outh open in am azem ent.
He did not believe in m iracles other than m iracles o f faith,
and m iracles could com e from Him alone, the sole M iracle
W orker, the O ne who had turned w ater into wine; all others
w ere m erely m agic tricks, a m atter o f concealed ropes.
M iracles w ere gran ted only to Christians, and am ong C h ris­
tians only to those whose faith was as solid as a rock, like His.
Rattled fo r a m om ent, frighten ed by the illusion— fo r it
could be nothing m ore than a sensory illusion, a case o f
E gyptian fairgro u n d s sorcery— he rubbed his eyes, then
looked over at the spot w here Sim on, called the M agus, had
been standing (and th erefo re ought still to be standing). B u t
he was not there, only his flaxen rope all coiled up like a

• 16 •
snake, and the dust, now slowly settling, that Sim on had
stirred u p as he hopped up and down like a clum sy rooster,
flapp in g his arm s like clipped wings. T h en he raised his eyes
to w here the crow d ’s heads pointed, and again he saw the
M agus. His silhouette stood out clearly against the white
cloud. It looked like a gigantic eagle, but it was not an eagle;
it was a m an: the hum an arm s, hum an legs, hum an head
w ere still easily discernible, though, to tell the truth, w hether
the m an ap p roach in g the cloud was actually Sim on M agus
was im possible to ascertain, because the facial features w ere
beyond recognition.
Peter looked up at the white cloud and blinked to banish
the illusion that had d u ped the entire crowd. F o r i f the black
silhouette ap p roach in g the cloud was in fact Sim on, then His
m iracles and the truth o f the Christian faith w ere but one o f
the truths o f this world and not the sole truth, then the world
was a m ystery and faith an illusion, then his life had lost its
foun dation, then m an was a m ystery am ong m ysteries, then
the unity o f the w orld and C reation was an unknown.
W hat m ust be— i f he could believe his eyes— the m ortal
body o f Sim on M agus had now reached the cloud, a black
speck that vanished fo r a m om ent, then stood out clearly
against the low cloud’s base, and finally disappeared fo r good
in the white mist.
T h e silence lasted only a m om ent befo re it was broken
by a sigh o f w on der in the crow d; people fell on their knees,
p rostrated them selves, and rolled their heads as i f in a trance.
E ven som e o f Peter’s disciples bowed b efore the new pagan
m iracle they had ju st witnessed.
T h e n Peter closed his eyes and said, in H ebrew (because
it is the natural lan gu age o f saints, and lest the crow d should
un derstan d him), the follow ing p rayer: “ O u r O ne and Only

• 17 •
Father, who art in heaven, come to the aid o f my senses,
which have been deceived by a m irage; gran t unto m ine eyes
keenness o f sight and unto my m ind the wisdom to avoid
dream s and illusions and rem ain steadfast in T h y faith and
in my love fo r T h y Son, O u r Saviour. A m e n .”
A n d G od said unto him , “ Follow my counsel, O faithful
servant. Say unto the people that the pow er o f faith is greater
than the snares o f the senses; say it loud, so that all m ay
hear. A n d say unto them, loud, so that all m ay hear: G od is
one and His nam e is Elohim , and the Son o f G od is one and
His nam e is Je su s, and faith is one and it is the Christian
faith. A n d he who has ju st now soared up to the sky, Sim on,
called the M agus, is an apostate and a desecrator o f G o d ’s
teachings; he has indeed taken (light by dint o f his will and
his thoughts and is now flying, invisible, to the stars, borne
by doubt and hum an curiosity, which, how ever, have their
limits. A n d say unto them , loud, so that all m ay hear, that I
was the O ne who granted him the pow er o f tem ptation, that
all his m ight and strength cam e from me, fo r it was I who
su ffered him to tem pt Christian souls with his m iracles, that
I m ight show them there is no m iracle without me, no pow er
but m ine. T h u s shalt thou say unto them without fe a r.”
T h e n P eter opened his eyes, climbed up a m ound o f
dried m an u re sw arm ing with flies, and began to shout at the
top o f his voice, “ Listen, people, and h e ar!”
N o one paid any attention to him. T h e people lay with
their heads in the dust, as sheep lie in the shade o f a grove
on a hot day.
A gain P eter shouted at the top o f his voice, “ Listen, O
people o f Sam aria, listen to what I have to tell you .”
A few people lifted their heads, the blind first.
“ Y o u have seen what you have seen. Y ou have been the

18
victims o f a sensory illusion. T h at conjurer, that fakir who
received his training in E gypt . . .”
“ H e kept his w ord ,” said Sophia.
“ B y the time I count to ten,” Peter went on, taking no
notice o f her, “ his body will crash to the earth he so despised,
fall like a stone at yo u r feet, n ever again to rise from the
dust . . . F o r G od the O ne and Only so desires. O ne . . .”
“ H e flew, d id n ’t he?” said Sophia. “ H e proved he was a
m agu s.”
“Tw o . .
“ E ven i f he falls, he is the victor,” said Sophia.
P eter kept his eyes shut while he counted, as if w ishing
to gain time.
A n d then he heard a shriek going up from the crowd,
and he open ed his eyes. A t the very spot w here Sim on had
disap p eared , a black speck was em ergin g from the cloud and
starting to grow . T h e body o f Sim on M agus cam e hurtling
to the earth like a stone, spinning on its longitudinal and
transversal axes. A s it grew b igger and m ore visible, the arm s
and legs could be seen flailing, and the crowd started run n in g
in all directions, apparen tly out o f fear that the body plu n gin g
h eadlon g from the heavens would land on one o f their
n um ber.
From then on, everythin g happen ed very quickly. Like
a sack o f moist sand when it lands on the d raym an ’s cart or
like a sheep d ro p p ed by an eagle in flight, the body o f Sim on
M agus crashed to the ground.
T h e first to approach it was Sophia the prostitute, his
faith fu l com panion. A ll she wanted was to cover his eyes with
the sca rf she had given him , but forced to close h er own eyes
at the horrible spectacle, she was unable to do even that. H e
lay on the gro un d , his skull fractured , his limbs broken, his

• 19 •
face m utilated and stream ing with blood, his intestines p ro ­
tru d in g like the entrails o f a slaughtered steer; on the groun d
lay a heap o f crushed, shattered bones and m angled flesh,
and his burn oose, his sandals, and her scarf were entangled
with the flesh and bones in an ap palling mess.
T h e people who cam e up to look at the sight heard
Sophia say in tones o f m alediction, “ T h is is yet fu rth er p ro o f
o f the truth o f his teaching. M an’s life is a Fall, and a hell,
and the w orld is in the hands o f tyrants. C u rsed be the
greatest o f all tyrants, E loh im .’'
T h e n she headed in the direction o f the desert, w eeping
and wailing.

2
[ ]

A cco rd in g to an other version, Sim on M agus did not direct

his challenge at the seventh heaven, but at the earth, the
greatest o f all Illusions.
So Sim on lay on his back, his hands behind his head, in
the shade o f a giant olive tree, staring up at the sky, at “ the
h o rro r o f the heavens.” T h e prostitute sat at his side, “ with
h er legs sp read wide like a pregnant cow ,” as a Christian
polem ist notes (though we cannot be certain w hether he is
rep o rtin g his own observations or citing an eyewitness— or
sim ply m aking it all up). T h e olive tree and its m eager shade
rem ain the only hard facts am id the m ultifarious evidence in
the curious story o f Sim on ’s m iracles. A n d so, chance willed
it that P eter and his m en should com e upon him there.
Doubtless provoked by S o p h ia’s unw orthy bearing, one o f
the disciples, his head turned away to shield him from
tem ptation, asked Sim on w hether it was better to sow on
earth and reap in heaven or to cast on e’s seed to the wind—
a scholastic question req uirin g an unam biguous answer.
Sim on p rop p ed him self up on one elbow and, rising no
farth er, answ ered him over his shoulder, saying: “A ll earth is
earth, and where one sows is all one. True communion comes from
the commingling o f man and wom an”
“ A n y m an and any w om an?” Peter asked, nearly turning
aro u n d in am azem ent.
“ W om an is the urn o f bliss,” said Sim on. “ A n d you, like
all dim wits, you stop up you r ears to keep them free o f
blasphem y; you avert you r gaze o r flee w hen you have no
an sw er.”
T h e re follow ed a long theological discussion o f Elohim ,
punishm ent, repentance, abnegation, soul and body, and the
m eaning o f life, all o f which was interspersed with scholastic
argum en ts and quotations in H ebrew , G reek, Coptic, and
Latin.
“ T h e soul is A lp h a and O m ega,” Peter concluded. “ W hat
is good is w hat is pleasing to G o d .”
“ Works are not good or bad in themselves ” said Sim on. “ M o­
rality is d efined by m en, not G o d .”
“ Acts o f charity are a guarantee o f life everlasting,” said
Peter. “ M iracles are p ro o f fo r those who still doubt.”
“ C an yo u r G od rep air the dam age done to a virgin ?”
asked Sim on, glancing at his com panion.
“ H e has spiritual p ow er,” said Peter, visibly disconcerted
by the question.
Sophia sm iled an am biguous smile.
“ W hat I m ean is, has he any physical pow er?” Sim on
w ent on.
“ H e has,” said Peter, without hesitation. “ H e has cured
lepers, he has . . .”

• 21*
 . . chan ged w ater into wine, et cetera, et cetera,” Sim on
interjected.
“ Y e s,” Peter continued. “ H e has m ade a calling o f m ir­
acles and . . .”
“ I thought carp en try was his calling,” said Sim on.
“ A n d ch arity,” said Peter.
Finally, incensed by P eter’s obstinacy and constant r e f­
erences to His m iracles, Sim on said, “ I can w ork m iracles like
yo u r N azaren e.”
“ T h a t’s easily said,” Peter replied, with a quiver in his
voice.
“ H e’s picked up all kinds o f tricks in the bazaars o f
E g y p t,” said one o f P eter’s disciples. “ We must beware o f
deceit.”
“ Y o u r N azarene— what was his nam e again?— he could
have studied Egyptian m agic, too,” said Sim on.
“ His m iracles occurred m ore than once,” said Peter.
“ B u ry me in the earth, six cubits d ee p ,” said Sim on
after b rie f deliberation. “ In three days I shall rise up like
yo u r . . .”
“ Jesu s,” said Peter. “ Y ou know very well what His nam e
is.”
“ T h a t’s right. H im .”
O ne o f the disciples ran o ff to a nearby village and
retu rn ed with a gro u p o f laborers who had been building a
well in the valley. T h e y had spades, shovels, and axes slung
o ver their shoulders. T h e whole village, everythin g that could
m ove, cam e ru n n in g after them. News that an Egyptian
sorcerer had ap p eared and was going to w ork a m iracle had
sp read rapidly.
“ Six cubits d ee p ,” Sim on repeated.
T h e laborers set to work, and soon the sandy surface

* 2 2 *
had been replaced by some rather coarse gravel, then by a
layer o f d ry, reddish earth. T h e shovels kept turn in g up clay
with traces o f roots in it; earthw orm s, sliced in two by the
sharp blades, w riggled and w rithed in the sun as i f roasting
in living fire.
Sophia stood silently beside the pit, which grew d eeper
and deep er, while Sim on— like a lord fo r whom a well is
bein g d u g o r a foundation laid— issued ord ers to the men,
m easured o ff the length and breadth o f the pit with carefu l
steps, low ered his flaxen rop e into its depths, and crum bled
earth and sand between his fingers.
W hen the coffin was ready— it was m ade o f rou gh ly hewn
boards o f frag ran t cypress held together by w ooden studs—
Sophia took o ff h er scarf and placed it around Sim on’s neck.
“ It’s cold dow n there, as cold as at the bottom o f a w ell,” she
said.
Sim on then abruptly left her side and took hold o f the
coffin and shook it, as i f wishing to test its solidity. T h e n he
stepped in nim bly and stretched out on the bottom.
T h e laborers ap p roached and, when he gave the sign,
poun ded the large studs into place with their broadaxes.
Peter w hispered som ething to one o f his disciples. T h e disciple
went u p and, having tested the studs, nodded.
P eter raised a slightly trem bling arm , and the laborers
slid som e ropes u n d er the coffin and low ered it carefully into
the hole. Sophia stood to the side, m otionless. Soil began
fallin g on the lid; it m ade a noise like the beat o f a large
dru m m oving swiftly into the distance. Soon, on the spot
w here the hole had been, near the big olive tree, a m ound
resem bling a sand dune took shape.
Peter clim bed the m ound, lifted his arm s heavenw ards,
and started m um bling a prayer. His eyes shut, his head

• 23 •
slightly cocked, he gave the im pression o f a man straining to
catch fa r-o ff voices.
B y the end o f the day, the wind had erased all trace o f
bare feet and sandals from the shifting sands.
T h re e days later— it was a Frid ay— they d u g up the coffin.
M any m ore people gathered fo r the disinterm ent than had
fo r the interm ent: news o f the m agus, fakir, con jurer had
spread fa r and wide. As ju d g e s to whom everyone gave
p riority, Sophia, Peter, and his disciples stood closest to the
pit.
First, they w ere hit by a horrible, in fernal stench. T h e n ,
ju st beneath the dirt, they saw the dark boards— which looked
alm ost rusted— o f the coffin. T h e w orkers knocked out the
studs and raised the lid. T h e face o f Sim on M agus was a
mass o f leprous corruption , and his eye sockets had worm s
p eerin g out o f them . O nly his yellowish teeth rem ained intact,
g rin n in g as if he w ere convulsed or laughing.
Sophia covered her eyes with her hands and scream ed.
T h e n she turned slowly toward Peter and said in a voice that
m ade him trem ble: “T h is, too, is p ro o f o f his teaching. M an’s
life is decay and perdition, and the world is in the hands o f
tyrants. C u rsed be the greatest o f all tyrants, E loh im .”
T h e people m ade way fo r her as she passed through
their silent ranks and headed for the desert, lam enting.
H er m ortal body return ed to the brothel, while her spirit
m oved on to a new Illusion.

• 24 •
I t h ap p en ed in 19 2 3 o r 19 2 4 . In H am burg, I think. D u ring
a time o f stock-m arket disasters and gid dy devaluation: the
daily w ages o f a dock laborer cam e to seventeen billion m arks,
an d decent prostitutes charged three times as m uch fo r their
services. (Sailors in the port o f H am burg carried “ch an ge” in
card board boxes, u n d er their arm s.)
In one o f the small pink room s not fa r from the port, a
prostitute nam ed M ariette had died suddenly o f pneum onia.
B a n d u ra , a U krain ian sailor and revolutionary, claim ed she
had “ gone u p in flam es o f love.” H e was incapable o f
associating h er divine body with even the slightest banality,
and pneum onia was a “ bourgeois disease.” “ She went up in
flam es, at the stake,” he said. A lth ou gh nearly five years had
passed since the event, B a n d u ra ’s voice grew hoarse and
m uffled w hen ever he spoke o f it, as if he w ere choking on a
cough. It was not only the result o f alcohol, though the truth
o f it was that by then he had becom e a ruin abandoned by
his kind, a hu ge rusty ship ru n agrou n d and rotting in the
shallows.
“ D on ’t w o rry,” B a n d u ra wheezed. “ N o w hore on earth

. 2 ? .
was ever m ourned with m ore sincerity, no w hore buried with
greater last respects.”
G reen h ou se flow er beds and abandoned outlying g a r­
dens had been ravaged fo r M ariette’s fu n eral; dogs barked
all night; the hounds w ere called out, and Alsatians straining
at the collar, that canine crown o f thorns; links o f heavy
chains slid up taut steel wires, clanging like the chains o f all
history’s slaves; and no one had the slightest inkling, not even
the tired old gard en ers in whose ailing bones lay a history o f
ailm ents as enorm ous as the history o f the proletariat, that
on that night a sm all, separate revolution had taken place:
the sailors o f the port o f H am burg storm ed the villas o f the
w ealthy; the proletarian children o f L e H avre, M arseilles,
A n tw erp m assacred the gladioluses, slitting stems at the root
with sh arp sailor’s knives and tram pling m inor flora, unw or­
thy o f the knife, with heavy, scruffy boots. Parks were
“ savagely o v e rru n ” ; nor was the M unicipal G ard en spared,
nor the gard en in front o f T o w n Hall, “ a stone’s throw from
Police H ead q u arters.” “ So barbarous an act,” said the news­
papers, “ could have been perpetrated only by spirits o f
anarchist bent and ruthless flower sm u gglers.”
M ariette’s grave was covered with arm fu ls o f roses, white
and red, freshly cut pine branches, chrysanthem um s and
tuberoses, sky-blue hydrangeas, decadent art-nouveau irises,
the flow er o f lust, hyacinths and expensive black tulips, the
flow er o f night, w axen m ortuary lilies, the flow er o f virginity
and First Com m union, violet lilacs reeking o f decay, low­
born rh o d od en dro n s, and m onstrous gladioluses (which w ere
in the m ajority), soft-white and soft-pink, saintly, angelic
gladioluses with their intrinsic sw ord-and-rose mystique, all
o f them together a sign o f putrid wealth, o f the cool m ansions
o f the w ealthy, lethally lush gladioluses w atered by the sweat

• 28 -
o f w eary old garden ers, the rosettes o f w atering cans, the
artificial rain o f artesian wells, to shield from the elem ents
the lushly m orbid growth o f barren flowers devoid o f fra ­
grance, even fish fragran ce, despite their fantastically join ted,
lobster-claw structure, despite the blossom s’ w axen wrinkles
and the stam ens’ m ock tentacles and the m ock spines o f the
finely honed buds: all that m onstrous lushness was incapable
o f exu d in g a single atom o f scent, not even so m uch as a wild
violet’s w orth. T h e crown o f this floral firew orks consisted o f
m agnolia branches purloined from the Botanical G ardens,
lush branches o f leathery leaves, each branch tipped with a
single large flow er like a silk ribbon in the hair o f the “ society
girls” w hom K am erad e B a n d u ra likened (with his typical
taste fo r overstatem ent) to h arbor whores. Only cem eteries
w ere sp ared , because in his call to “ all sailors, all lon gshore­
m en, all those who loved h e r” B an d u ra had requested fresh
flow ers only, expressly forbid d in g— doubtless in a rush o f
quasi-m ystical inspiration— the desecration o f graves. I believe
I can reconstruct, approxim ately at least, the flow o f his
thought: Y o u can’t cheat death; flowers, like hum ans, follow
a clear dialectical path and biological cycle— from blossom to
decay; proletarians have a right to the sam e last respects as
respectable citizens; w hores are the product o f class d iffe r­
ences; w hores are (therefore) w orthy o f the sam e flowers as
w om en o f society. A n d so on.
T h e silent procession led by B a n d u ra did not raise its
flags, red and black, until it had reached the outlying,
proletarian part o f town; there they u n fu rled in the wind
with an om inous flutter, fire-red, night-black, symbols resem ­
bling the lan gu age o f flowers yet not without social overtones.
A t the b o rd er between the graves o f the rich and the
graves o f the poor, B a n d u ra stum bled his way u p a high

• 29 •
podium o f black m arble slabs (a bronze angel held a wreath
over a long-dead girl) and, b efo re the quiet, bareheaded
crow d o f sailors and heavily m ade-up prostitutes, delivered
his fu n eral oration. H e began with a short, schematic account
o f h er life: the pain ful existence o f a child from a proletarian
fam ily with a laundress fo r a m other and a scoundrel, who
ended his days a d ru n ken stevedore in the port o f M arseilles,
fo r a father. A n d while, despite a tight throat and cracked
voice, B a n d u ra , sailor and revolutionary, did all he could to
fram e his oration, that m ou rnfu l assessment o f an un h appy
life, with issues o f social injustice and the class struggle,
spitting out w ords o f hate as if readin g Baku nin , he could
not help review ing the living pictures o f that life as they
passed b efo re him like photographs in an old album (and I
am certain they m ingled im perceptibly with m em ories o f his
own childhood): a basem ent in m orbid sem i-darkness, ciga­
rette sm oke, and the reek o f wine and anisette; harrow ing
scenes o f fam ily quarrels, fights, scream ing and sobbing;
bedbugs bu rn ing, p op pin g u n d er a torch o f lighted newsprint,
the flam e licking the already sooty grooves and join ts o f iron
arm y beds; the even in g’s delousing by flickering lam plight,
the children leaning over one an other’s heads m onkey-like
and discoverin g clusters o f the pests at the roots o f black and
blond tufts; a m other’s hands, swollen like boiled goatfish
from taking in w ashing . . .
His speech over the open grave was in terrupted only by
occasional hysterical sobs from the old w hores (no one
perhaps show ed m ore p ainfully the transience o f the flesh
and the im p en d ing disaster o f decay) and hoarse coughs and
sniffles from the longshorem en, though he had no way o f
know ing w hether it was actually coughing or a tough, sailor’s
brand o f crying, a m ale surrogate for crying, the same

‘ 30 *
substitute fo r sighs and tears he him self was using as he gave
the speech. (Listening to his voice— like the voice o f a stranger
or a scratchy p hon ograp h— he m entally leafed through the
old picture album in chronological o rd er, from his original
encounter with M ariette.)
H e first laid eyes on her one evening in 19 19 , in the port
o f H am burg, w here he had ju st gone ashore from the Franken.
It was a beautiful gray N ovem ber evening with streetlam ps
flickering in the mist. H e had orders to m ake contact with
the apparat in a local dive the next day (a passw ord had been
agreed upon) and until then he was to go unnoticed, to
refrain fro m standing out in any way— in bearing, speech,
behavior, o r appearan ce— from the hu n dred, the thousand
sailors who had gone ashore that day. H e w alked along “ Doll
Street” m ingling with the d ru nken sailors— and sober in fo rm ­
ers p laying d ru nken sailors— and p eered through the low
windows into discreetly pink-lit room s. T h e red-shaded wall
lam p cast a light like that o f the Flem ish m asters on portraits
o f L ad y in a M auve In terior, while a screen painted over with
decadent irises, the flow er o f debauchery, hid the m ysteries
o f the Intim ate (which attracts by concealm ent like folds and
slits in a dress): the settee upholstered in brocade and solid
as a sh ip — oh, B a n d u ra knew the shape o f things long before
he cam e to know M ariette!— the sparkling white porcelain
basin and shapely high-handled pitcher. T h e lam p ’s pink
light glitters on the screen’s glossy fabric, the irises recede
into darkness, as does the red brocade on the chair, in the
center o f the window, w here the L ad y sits. She is turned
tow ard the spectator in sem i-profile, the rose-colored lam p­
light ben d in g this way and that in the folds o f h er dress. H er
legs are crossed, h er hands occupied by knitting. T h e flicker
o f needles above the yarn. L on g, blond hair fallin g over

• 31 •
bared shoulders dow n to half-bared breasts. A second Lady,
in the next window, holds a book. She is like a novice reading
the Bible. From u n d er the straw berry-blond hair that slightly
veils her face a glint o f light is reflected o ff her eyeglasses.
(M oving a bit closer, the observer discovers the title. The
Count o f Monte Cristo, printed in large letters.) She is w earing
a d ark dress with a white lace collar, a cam p follow er who
looks like a student at H eid elberg . . . A n d then he saw her,
M ariette. She sat with her legs crossed like the others and
her behind ju ttin g out slightly, with a cigarette in her hand
and the usual bright satin dress h u ggin g her body, but there
was som ething in her bearing, her appearan ce, the pale pink
glow in which she was im m ersed as in an aquarium (the
sailor’s eternal Siren) that im m ediately attracted B an d u ra.
Y et not until he had entered her room and she had draw n
the heavy green velvet curtain across the window and placed
h er warm hand u n d er his shirt, not until then did he realize:
M ariette was not m eant to play a role, be it H ousew ife or
K nitter o r Student or N ovice; she was the only one who
needed no com plicated and carefully rehearsed cho reog­
rap h y; she was unique, inim itable; she was a harbor whore.
“ She loved and aided sailors from all ports,” B an d u ra
roared out over the open grave as if at a rally, “ and she had
no prejudices against skin color, race, or religion. She pressed
her breasts— ‘small but beautiful,’ as N apoleon Bon ap arte,
the em p ero r o f crim e, used to say— with equal ard o r to the
black, sweaty chests o f New Y o rk sailors, the yellow hairless
chests o f the M alaysians, the bear-like paws o f H am burg
stevedores, and the tattoos o f the A lbert Canal pilots; her
lily-white neck, like a seal o f universal brotherhood, had been
crushed by M altese crosses, crucifixes, Stars o f D avid, Russian
icons, sh ark’s teeth, and m andrake talismans, and between

*32 *
h er tender thighs flowed a river o f hot sperm that m erged
in h er w arm vagina as in the hom e port o f all sailors, the
m outh o f all rivers . .
Listenin g to his own voice, distant and cold, B an d u ra
continued to follow the pictures from M ariette’s life taking
shape in him , but now they lacked all clear chronology, as if
the wind had riffled through the album leaves and he him self,
B a n d u ra , had seen everything there with his own eyes. (A fter
love, in the proxim ity o f a m an she really loved— and this
ten der-hearted revolutionary was one o f them — M ariette
could talk about h e rse lf as i f she w ere at confession. She
w ould rem inisce with a curious kind o f nostalgia, as if all the
brutal stories, full o f loathsom e detail, w ere unim portant in
and o f them selves, the only thing o f im portance being that
it had all happ en ed long ago, she had been young then, presque
une enfant, alm ost a child.) A n d he saw som e disgusting little
G reek take h er by the hand one C arnival evening, pale and
slightly d ru n k from skim m ing the foam o ff beers like a child;
saw h er tag after the G reek with the tiny steps o f a hun gry,
obedient anim al throu gh the narrow streets o f M arseilles and
dow n to the port; saw her start up the steps o f a dark
tenem ent in the vicinity o f the h arbor w arehouses, pulling
h e rse lf alon g by a m akeshift railing o f thick cordage; then
follow ed her, with the sam e vague fu ry, as she m ade her
confident way tow ard the third-story door (the G reek still
standing at the foot o f the stairs, in case she changed her
m ind). T h e n the scene switched back to the streets o f M ar­
seilles, w here a heavily m ade-up M ariette stood leaning
against a stone wall, supporting h e rse lf on one leg like an
in ju red bird . . .
“ A ll o f us here, K am erad en ,” B a n d u ra went on, “ we are
all m em bers o f one large fam ily, lovers, fiances— I mean,

* 33 *
husbands o f the sam e w ife, knights o f the sam e lady, cousins-
in-cunt, who have swilled at the same source, swigged rum
from the sam e bottle, wept d runken tears on the same
shoulder, and heaved into the sam e basin, the one over there,
behind the green screen . .
W hen B a n d u ra ’s cracked voice fell silent, the first lum ps
o f earth— cast by the rou gh hands o f sailors and stevedores,
who crum bled them as if salting the innards o f a gigantic
fish— began to beat against the coffin. From som ew here above
the grave cam e the sound o f fluttering silk, red and black
flags turn ed to m ere fun eral trappings. T h e n earth began to
rain dow n on the grave by the shovelful, dru m m in g dully on
the coffin with the sound an ear hears when pressed against
the frantic heart o f a bawd after love. T h e y tossed the flowers
in singly, then in bunches, and eventually by the arm fu l,
passing them along from one to the next, hand to hand, a
collective harvest, all the way from the chapel to the p au p ers’
section, w here crosses suddenly shrink and granite tombs
and bronze m onum ents give way to stone m arkers and rotting
wood. A n d no one will ever know what m ade them do it,
what im pulse, what dru nken whim, what pain— class hatred
or Ja m aic a rum ?— m ade them violate B a n d u ra ’s ord er, but
all at once a m iracle o f revolutionary disobedience took place,
an elem ental, irrational uprising: sailors and streetw alkers, a
hard-boiled lot, suddenly took to ravin g and exaltation, tears
and teeth-gnashing as they tore out the noble gladioluses,
bloodied their hands on rose stems, pulled up tulips with
their bulbs, bit o ff carnations, passing them along from one
to the next, hand to hand, and by the arm fu l. U p grew a
m ountain o f flowers and green ery, a stake o f tulips, hyd ran ­
geas, and roses, a charnel house o f gladioluses, the cross
above the fresh burial m ound and the burial m ound itself

* 34 '
d isap p earin g u n d er the enorm ous stack o f flowers with the
slightly ran k arom a o f lilacs past their prim e.
B y the time the police intervened, the finer sections o f
the cem etery had been stripped bare, devastated, as if,
according to press reports, “ a swarm o f locusts had passed
throu gh the desolate landscape.” (Rote Fahne carried an u n ­
signed article condem ning police brutality and the arrest and
deportation o f som e twenty sailors.)
“ T a k e o ff you r cap ,” says B a n d u ra to the m an he has
been talking to. In a sudden surge o f pain Jo h a n n o r Ja n
Waltin (I think that’s what his nam e was) tries to recall
M ariette’s face. A ll he can com e up with is a tiny body and a
hoarse laugh. T h en , fo r a m om ent, he catches a m ental
glim pse o f h er smile, a shadow o f her face, but soon they too
dissolve.
“Don’t w o r r y says B an d u ra. “No society woman was ever
mourned with more sincerity, no lady buried with greater last respects. ”
The Encychpedia of the Dead

(A Whole Life)

F O R M.
L a s t year, as you know, I went to Sw eden at the invitation
o f the Institute fo r T h eater Research. A M rs. Jo h an sson ,
K ristina Jo h an sso n , served as my guide and m entor. I saw
five o r six productions, am ong which a successful Godot— fo r
prisoners— was most w orthy o f note. W hen I retu rn ed hom e
ten days later, I was still living in that fa r-o ff w orld as i f in a
dream .
M rs. Jo h an sso n was a forcefu l wom an, and she intended
to use those ten days to show me everything there was to see
in Sw eden, everythin g that m ight interest m e “ as a w om an.”
She even included the fam ous Wasa, the sailing ship that had
been hauled out o f the sludge after several h u n d red years,
preserved like a p h arao h ’s m um m y. O ne evening, after a
p erform an ce o f Ghost Sonata at the D ram aten, m y hostess
took me to the R oyal L ibrary. I barely had time to w o lf down
a sandw ich at a stand.
It was about eleven by then, and the buildin g was closed.
B u t M rs. Jo h an sso n show ed a pass to the m an at the door,
and he gru d gin g ly let us in. H e held a large rin g o f keys in
his hand, like the gu ard who had let us into the Central
Prison the day b efo re to see Godot. M y hostess, having

• 39 •
delivered m e into the hands o f this C erberus, said she would
call fo r me in the m orn in g at the hotel; she told me to look
throu gh the library in peace, the gendem an would call me a
cab, he was at my disposal . . . W hat could I do but accept
her kind o ffer? T h e gu ard escorted me to an enorm ous door,
which he unlocked, and then switched on a dim light and
left me alone. I heard the key turn in the lock behind me;
there I was, in a library like a dungeon.
A d ra ft blew in from som ew here, rip plin g the cobwebs,
which, like dirty scraps o f gauze, hun g from the bookshelves
as over select bottles o f old wine in a cellar. All the room s
w ere alike, connected by a narrow passagew ay, and the draft,
w hose source I could not identify, penetrated everyw here.
It was at that point, even befo re I had had a good look
at the books (and ju st after noticing the letter C on one o f
the volum es in the third room ), that I caught on: each room
housed one letter o f the alphabet. T h is was the third. A n d,
in deed, in the next section all the books w ere m arked with
the letter D. Sud d en ly, driven by some vague prem onition, I
broke into a run. I heard my steps reverberatin g, a m ultiple
echo that faded away in the darkness. Agitated and out o f
breath, I arrived at the letter M and with a perfectly clear goal
in mind open ed one o f the books. I had realized— perhaps I
had read about it som ew here— that this was the celebrated
Encyclopedia o f the Dead. Everythin g had com e clear in a flash,
even befo re I open ed the massive tome.
T h e first thing I saw was his picture, the only illustration,
set into the double-colum n text in rough ly the m iddle o f the
page. It was the photograph you saw on my desk. It was
taken in 19 3 6 , on N ovem ber 12 , in M aribor, ju st after his
discharge. U n d er the picture w ere his nam e and, in p aren ­
theses, the years 1 9 1 0 - 7 9 .

• 40 •
 Y o u know that my fath er died recently and that I had
been very close to him from my earliest years. B u t I don ’t
want to talk about that here. W hat concerns me now is that
he died less than two m onths before my trip to Sw eden. One
o f the m ain reasons I decided to take the trip was to escape
my grief. I thought, as people in adversity are wont to think,
that a change o f scene w ould help me escape the pain, as if
we did not bear ou r g rie f within ourselves.
C rad lin g the book in my arm s and leaning against the
rickety w ooden shelves, I read his biography com pletely
oblivious o f time. A s in m edieval libraries, the books w ere
fastened by thick chains to iron rings on the shelves. I did
not realize this until I tried to m ove the heavy volum e closer
to the light.
I was suddenly overcom e with anguish; I felt I had
overstayed m y welcom e and M r. C erberus (as I called him)
m ight com e and ask me to halt my reading. I th erefore
started skim m ing through the p aragrap hs, turn in g the open
book, in sofar as the chain would allow, in the direction o f
the pale light shed by the lam p. T h e thick layer o f dust that
had gath ered along their edges and the danglin g scraps o f
cobwebs bore clear witness to the fact that no one had handled
the volum es in a long time. T h e y w ere fettered to one another
like galley slaves, but their chains had no locks.
So this is the fam ous Encyclopedia o f the Dead, I thought
to m yself. I had pictured it as an ancient book, a “ ven erable”
book, som ething like the T ibetan B ook o f the D ead or the
C abala o r the Lives o f the Saints— one o f those esoteric creations
o f the hum an spirit that only herm its, rabbis, and m onks can
enjoy. W hen I saw that I m ight go on read in g until dawn
and be left without any concrete trace o f what I had read fo r
either me o r m y m other, I decided to copy out several o f the

*41
most im portant passages and m ake a kind o f sum m ary o f my
fath er’s life.
T h e facts I have recorded here, in this notebook, are
ord in ary, encyclopedia facts, unim portant to anyone but my
m other and m e: nam es, places, dates. T h e y w ere all I
m anaged to jo t down, in haste, at dawn. W hat m akes the
Encyclopedia unique (apart from its being the only existing
copy) is the way it depicts hum an relationships, encounters,
landscapes— the m ultitude o f details that m ake up a hum an
life. T h e referen ce (for exam ple) to my fath er’s place o f birth
is not only com plete and accurate (“ K raljevcani, Glina town­
ship, Sisak district, Ban ija provin ce” ) but is accom panied by
both geograph ical and historical details. Because it records
everythin g. Everythin g. T h e countryside o f his native region
is ren d ered so vividly that as I read, or rather flew over the
lines and p aragrap h s, 1 felt I was in the heart o f it: the snow
on distant m ountain peaks, the bare trees, the frozen river
with children skating past as in a B ru eg h el landscape. A nd
am ong those children I saw him clearly, my father, although
he was not yet my father, only he who w ould becom e my
father, who had been my father. T h en the countryside sud­
denly turned green and buds blossom ed on the trees, pink
and white, haw thorn bushes flow ered befo re my eyes, the
sun arch ed over the village o f K raljevcani, the village church
bells chim ed, cows m ooed in their barns, and the scarlet
reflection o f the m orning sun glistened on the cottage w in­
dows and m elted the icicles hangin g from the gutters.
T h e n , as if it w ere all u n fold in g before my eyes, I saw a
fu n eral procession headed in the direction o f the village
cem etery. F o u r m en, hatless, w ere carryin g a fir casket on
their shoulders, and at the head o f the procession walked a
m an, hat in hand, whom I knew to be— for that is what the

•42 •
book said— my paternal gran d fath er M arko, the husband o f
the deceased, whom they w ere laying to rest. T h e book tells
everythin g about her as well: date o f birth, cause o f illness
and death, progression o f disease. It also indicates what
garm ents she was buried in, who bathed her, who placed the
coins on h er eyes, who bound her chin, who carved the
casket, w here the tim ber was felled. T h at m ay give you an
idea— som e idea, at least— o f the copiousness o f the in fo r­
m ation included in The Encyclopedia o f the Dead by those who
undertake the difficult and praisew orthy task o f reco rdin g—
in what is doubtless an objective and im partial m anner—
everythin g that can be recorded concerning those who have
com pleted their earthly jo u rn e y and set o ff on the eternal
one. (For they believe in the m iracle o f biblical resurrection,
and they com pile their vast catalogue in preparation fo r that
m om ent. So that everyone will be able to find not only his
fellow m en but also— and m ore im portant— his own forgotten
past. W hen the time com es, this com pendium will serve as a
great treasury o f m em ories and a unique p ro o f o f resu rrec­
tion.) C learly, they m ake no distinction, w here a life is
concerned, betw een a provincial m erchant and his w ife,
betw een a village priest (which is what my great-gran dfath er
was) and a village bell rin ger called C uk, w hose nam e also
figu res in the book. T h e only condition— som ething I grasped
at once, it seem s to have com e to me even b efo re I could
confirm it— fo r inclusion in The Encyclopedia o f the Dead is that
no one w hose nam e is recorded here m ay ap p ear in any
other encyclopedia. I was struck from the first, as I leafed
th rou gh the book— one o f the thousands o f M volum es— by
the absence o f fam ous people. (I received im m ediate confir­
m ation as I turn ed the pages with m y frozen fingers, looking
fo r my fath er’s nam e.) T h e Encyclopedia did not include

* 43 '
separate listings fo r M azuranic or M eyerhold or M alm berg
or M aretic, who w rote the gram m ar my fath er used in school,
or M estrovic, w hom my father had once seen in the street,
or D ragoslav M aksim ovic, a lathe op erator and Socialist
dep u ty w hom my g ran d fath er had known, or T a sa Milojevic,
K au tsky’s translator, with whom my father had once con­
versed at the Russian T s a r C afe. It is the w ork o f a religious
organization or sect whose dem ocratic p rogram stresses an
egalitarian vision o f the w orld o f the dead, a vision that is
doubtless inspired by some biblical precept and aims at
red ressin g hum an injustices and gran tin g all G o d ’s creatures
an equal place in eternity. I was also quick to grasp that the
Encyclopedia did not delve into the d ark distance o f history
and time, that it cam e into being shortly after 178 9 . T h e odd
caste o f erudites m ust have m em bers all over the world
d ig gin g tirelessly and discreetly through obituaries and biog­
raphies, processing their data, and d elivering them to head ­
q u arters in Stockholm . (C ould n ’t Mrs. Jo h an sso n be one o f
them ? I w ondered fo r a m om ent. C o u ld n ’t she have brought
me to the library, after I had confided my g rie f to her, so
that I m ight discover The Encyclopedia o f the Dead and find a
m odicum o f consolation in it?) T h at is all I can surm ise, all I
in fe r about their work. T h e reason for their secrecy resides,
I believe, in the C h u rch ’s long history o f persecution, though
w ork on an encyclopedia such as this understandably requires
a certain discretion if the pressures o f hum an vanity are to
be avoided and attem pts at corruption thwarted.
N o less am azing than their secret activities, how ever, was
their style, an unlikely am algam o f encyclopedic conciseness
and biblical eloquence. T a k e , for exam ple, the m eager bit o f
in form ation I was able to get down in my notebook: there it
is condensed into a few lines o f such intensity that suddenly,

* 44 *
as if by m agic, the rea d er’s spirit is overw helm ed by the
radian t landscape and swift succession o f im ages. We find a
three-year-old boy being carried up a m ountain path to see
his m aternal g ran d fath er on a sw eltering sunny day, while in
the backgroun d— the second o r third plane, if that is what it
is called— there are soldiers, revenue officers, and police,
distant cannon th un d er and m uffled barking. W e find a pithy
chronology o f W orld W ar I: trains clanking past a m arket
town, a brass band playing, w ater gu rglin g in the neck o f a
canteen, glass shattering, kerchiefs fluttering . . . Each item
has its own p aragrap h , each p eriod its own poetic essence
and m etaphor— not always in chronological o rd e r but in a
strange symbiosis o f past, present, and future. H ow else can
we explain the plaintive com m ent in the text— the “ picture
album ” coverin g his first five years, which he spent with his
g ra n d fa th er in K om ogovina— the com m ent that goes, if I
rem em b er correctly, “ T h o se would be the finest years o f his
life ” ? T h e n com e condensed im ages o f childhood, reduced,
so to speak, to ideographs: nam es o f teachers and friends,
the boy’s “ finest years” against a backdrop o f changing
seasons, rain splashing o ff a happ y face, swims in the river,
a toboggan speedin g down a snow-swept hill, trout fishing,
and then— or, i f possible, sim ultaneously— soldiers return in g
from the battlefields o f E u rop e, a canteen in the boy’s hands,
a shattered gas m ask abandoned on an em bankm ent. A n d
nam es, life stories. T h e w idow er M arko m eeting his future
w ife, Sofija R ebraca, a native o f K om ogovina, the w edding
celebration, the toasts, the village horse race, pennants and
ribbons flapp in g, the exchange-of-rings cerem ony, singing
and kolo-dancing outside the church doors, the boy dressed
u p in a white shirt, a sprig o f rosem ary in his lapel.
H ere, in m y notebook, I have recorded only the w ord

* 45 *
“ K raljevcan i,” but the Encyclopedia devotes several dense
p aragrap h s to this period, com plete with nam es and dates.
It describes how he awoke on that day, how the cuckoo in
the clock on the wall roused him from his fitful sleep. It
contains the nam es o f the coachm en, the names o f the
neighbors who m ade up the escort, a portrait o f the school­
m aster, the guidance he offered to the boy’s new m other, the
priest’s counsels, the w ords o f those who stood at the outskirts
o f the village to wave them one last farew ell.
N othing, as I have said, is lacking, nothing om itted,
neither the condition o f the road nor the hues o f the sky,
and the list o f paterfam ilias M arko’s w orldly possessions is
com plete to the last detail. N othing has been forgotten, not
even the nam es o f the authors o f old textbooks and prim ers
full o f w ell-m eaning advice, cautionary tales, and biblical
parables. E very period o f life, every experien ce is recorded:
every fish caught, every page read, the nam e o f every plant
the boy ev er picked.
A n d here is my fath er as a young man, his first hat, his
first carriage ride, at dawn. H ere are the nam es o f girls, the
w ords o f the songs sung at the time, the text o f a love letter,
the new spapers read— his entire youth com pressed into a
single p aragrap h .
N ow we are in Rum a, w here my fath er received his
secondary-school education. Perhaps this exam p le will give
you an idea o f how all-knowing, as they used to say, The
Encyclopedia o f the Dead actually is. T h e principle is clear, yet
the erudition, the need to record it all, everythin g a hum an
life is m ade of, is en ough to take on e’s breath away. W hat
we have here is a b rie f history o f Rum a, a m eteorological
m ap, a description o f the railway ju n ction ; the nam e o f the
p rin ter and everythin g printed at the time— every news­
p ap er, every book; the plays put on by itinerant com panies

• 46
and the attractions o f touring circuses; a description o f a
brickyard . . . w here a youn g man, leaning against a locust
tree, is w hispering a m ixture o f rom antic and rather ribald
w ords into a girl’s ear (we have the com plete text). A n d
everythin g— the train, the printing press, the finale o f The
Bumptious Bumpkin, the circus elephant, the track forkin g o ff
in the direction o f Sabac— it all figures here only insofar as
it pertains to the individual in question. T h e re are also
excerpts from school reports: grades, draw ings, nam es o f
classmates, until the next-to-the-last year (section B), when
the you n g m an had w ords with P rofessor L .D ., the history
and geo grap h y teacher.
Su dd enly we are in the heart o f a new city. It is 19 2 8 ;
the youn g m an is w earin g a cap with a final-year insignia on
it and has grow n a m ustache. (H e will have it fo r the rest o f
his life. O nce, fairly recently, his razor slipped and he shaved
it o ff com pletely. W hen I saw him, I burst into tears: he was
som ebody else. In my tears there was a vague, fleeting
realization o f how m uch I would miss him w hen he died.)
N ow here he is in fron t o f the C afe Central, then at a cinem a,
w here a piano plays while Voyage to the Moon un folds on the
screen. L ater we find him looking over newly posted an ­
nouncem ents on the notice board in Jelacic Square, one o f
which— and I m ention it only as a curiosity— announces a
lecture by K rleza. T h e nam e o f A n n a Erem ija— a m aternal
aunt, in whose Ju risic Street flat in Z agreb he will later live—
figures here side by side with the nam es o f K rizaj, the op era
singer, w hom he once passed in the U p p e r T o w n ; Ivan Labus,
the cobbler who rep aired his shoes; and a certain A n te Dutina,
in w hose bakery he bought his rolls . . .

In that distant year o f 19 29 , one approached B elg rad e

via the Sava B rid g e, probably with the same jo y o f arrival as

• 47 •
one feels today. T h e train wheels clatter as they pass over
the m etal trestles, the Sava flows m ud -green, a locomotive
blows its whistle and loses speed, and my fath er appears at a
second-class window, p eerin g out at the distant view o f an
un fam iliar city. T h e m orn in g is fresh, the fo g slowly lifts o ff
the horizon, black sm oke puffs from the stack o f the steam er
Smederevo, a m uffled horn hoots the im m inent d ep artu re o f
the boat fo r N ovi Sad.
With b rie f interruptions, my father spent approxim ately
fifty years in B elg rad e, and the sum o f his experiences— the
total o f som e eighteen thousand days and nights (432,000
hours) is covered here, in this book o f the dead, in a m ere
five or six pages! A n d yet, at least in broad outline, chronology
is respected: the days flow like the river o f time, toward the
m outh, tow ard death.
In Sep tem b er o f that year, 19 29 , my fath er enrolled in
a school that taught surveying, and the Encyclopedia chronicles
the creation o f the B elg rad e School o f Su rveyin g and gives
the text o f the in au gu ral lecture by its director, P rofessor
Stojkovic (who enjoined the future surveyors to serve king
and coun try loyally, for on their shoulders lay the heavy
b u rd en o f m ap p in g the new borders o f their m otherland).
T h e nam es o f the glorious cam paigns and no less glorious
defeats o f W orld W ar I— K ajm akcalan, M ojkovac, C er, Ko-
lubara, D rina— alternate with the nam es o f professors and
students who fell in battle, with my fath er’s grades in trigo­
n om etry, draftsm an ship, history, religion, and calligraphy.
We find also the nam e R oksanda-R osa, a flow er girl with
w hom D.M . “ trifled ,” as they said in those days, along with
the nam es o f B o rivo j-B o ra Ilic, who ran a cafe; M ilenko
A zan ja, a tailor; Kosta Stavroski, at whose place he stopped
every m orn in g fo r a hot burek\ and a man nam ed Krtinic,

•48
who fleeced him once at cards. N ext comes a list o f films and
soccer m atches he saw, the dates o f his excursions to A vala
and K osm aj, the w eddings and funerals he attended, the
nam es o f the streets w here he lived (Cetinjska, Em press
Milica, G avrilo Princip, K in g Peter I, Prince Milos, Pozeska,
K am enicka, Kosm ajska, Brankova), the nam es o f the authors
o f his geograp h y, geom etry, and planim etry texts, titles o f
the books he enjoyed (King o f the Mountain, Stanko the Bandit,
The Peasant Revolt), church services, circus perform ances,
gym nastics dem onstrations, school functions, art exhibits
(where a w atercolor done by my fath er was com m ended by
the ju ry ). We also find m ention o f the day he sm oked his
first cigarette, in the school lavatory, at the instigation o f one
Ivan G erasim ov, the son o f a Russian em igre, who took him
one w eek later to a then-celebrated B elg rad e cafe, with a
G ypsy orchestra and Russian counts and officers w eeping to
guitars and balalaikas . . . N othing is om itted: the cerem onial
unveiling o f the K alem egd an m onum ent, food poisoning
from ice cream bought on the corn er o f M acedonia Street,
the shiny pointed shoes purchased with the m oney his fath er
gave him fo r passing his exam inations.
T h e next p aragrap h tells o f his dep artu re fo r Uzicka
Pozega in 19 3 3 , in M ay. T ra v elin g with him on the train,
second class, is the un fortun ate Gerasim ov, the em igre’s son.
It is their first assignm ent: they are to survey the terrain o f
Serbia, m ake cadastral and cartographic sketches. T h e y take
turns carryin g the leveling rod and the theodolite; protecting
their heads with straw hats— it is sum m er by now, and the
sun is beating dow n— they climb hills, call, shout back and
forth to each other; the autum n rains begin; pigs start
grubbing, the cattle start getting restless; the theodolite has
to be kept sheltered: it attracts lightning. In the evenings

* 49 '
they d rin k slivovitz with M ilenkovic, the village schoolm aster,
the spit turns, G erasim ov curses first in Russian, then in
Serbian, the brand y is strong. Poor G erasim ov will die o f
pneum on ia in N ovem ber o f that year, with D.M. standing
over his deathbed, listening to his ravings—-just as he will
stand over his grave, head bowed, hat in hand, m editating
on the transitory nature o f hum an existence.
T h a t is what rem ains in my m em ory; that is what rem ains
in the notes I h u rried ly jotted down with my frozen fingers
on that night or, rather, m orning. A n d it represents two
entire years, two seem ingly m onotonous years, when from
M ay to N ovem ber— bandit season— D.M . d ragged the tripod
and the theodolite up hill and down dale, the seasons changed,
the rivers overflow ed their banks and return ed to them , the
leaves turned first green , then yellow, and my father sat in
the shade o f blossom ing plum trees, then took refu g e un der
the eaves o f a house as flashes o f lightning illum inated the
even in g landscape and thun d er reverberated through the
ravines.
It is sum m er, the sun is blazing, and o u r surveyors (he
has a new p artn er nam ed Dragovic) stop at a house (street
and n um ber noted) at noon, knock on the door, ask fo r
w ater. A girl com es out and gives them a pitcher o f ice-cold
w ater, as in a folk tale. T h a t girl— as you m ay have guessed—
will becom e my m other.
I w on’t try to retell it all from m em ory, everything, the
way it is record ed and depicted there— the date and m anner
o f the betrothal, the traditional w edding w here m oney is no
object, the ran ge o f picturesque folkways that w ere part o f
that life: it w ould all seem insufficient, fragm entary, com ­
p ared with the original. Still, I can't help m entioning that the
text gives a list o f the witnesses and guests, the nam e o f the

* 50 *
priest who officiated, the toasts and songs, the gifts and givers,
the food and drink. N ext, chronologically, com es a period o f
five m onths, between N ovem ber and M ay, when the new­
lyweds settled in B e lg rad e; the Encyclopedia includes the floor
plan and fu rn itu re arrangem ent, the price o f the stove, bed,
and w ardrobe, as well as certain intimate details that in such
instances are always so alike and always so d ifferent. A fte r
all— and this is what I consider the com pilers’ central m es­
sage— nothing in the history o f m ankind is ever repeated,
things that at first glance seem the sam e are scarcely even
sim ilar; each individual is a star unto him self, everything
happen s always and never, all things repeat them selves ad
infinitum yet are unique. (T hat is why the authors o f the
majestic m onum ent to diversity that is The Encyclopedia o f the
Dead stress the particular; that is why every hum an being is
sacred to them.)
W ere it not fo r the com pilers’ obsession with the idea
that every hum an being is unique, and every event singular,
w hat w ould be the point o f p rovid in g the nam es o f the priest
and the registrar, a description o f the w eddin g dress, or the
nam e o f G ledic, a village outside K raljevo, along with all
those details that connect m an and place? F or now we come
to m y fath er’s arrival “ in the field ,” his stay from M ay to
N ovem ber— bandit season again— in various villages. We find
the nam e o f Jo v a n Radojkovic (at whose inn, in the evenings,
the surveyors drin k chilled wine on credit) and o f a child,
Svetozar, who becam e m y fath er’s godson at the request o f a
certain Stevan Ja n jic , and o f a Dr. Levstik, a Slovene exile,
w ho prescribed m edication fo r my fath er’s gastritis, and o f a
girl nam ed R ad m ila-R ad a M avreva, with whom he had a roll
in the hay o ff in a stable som ew here.
A s fo r m y fath er’s m ilitary service, the book traces the

‘ 5i *
m arches he took with the Fifth In fan try stationed in M aribor,
and specifies the nam es and ranks o f the officers and N .C .O .s
and the nam es o f the men in his barracks, the quality o f the
food in the mess, a knee in ju ry sustained on a night m arch,
a rep rim an d received fo r losing a glove, the nam e o f the cafe
at which he celebrated his tran sfer to Pozarevac.
A t first glance it m ay seem quite the sam e as any m ilitary
service, any tran sfer, but from the standpoint o f the Encyclo­
pedia both Pozarevac and my fa th e rs seven months in the
barracks there w ere unique: never again, never, would a
certain D .M ., surveyor, in the autum n o f 19 3 5 , draw maps
near the stove o f the Pozarevac barracks and think o f how,
two o r three m onths befo re, on a night m arch, he had caught
a glim pse o f the sea.
T h e sea he glim psed, fo r the first time, at twenty-five,
from the slopes o f the Velebit on A p ril 28, 19 3 5 , would reside
within him — a revelation, a dream sustained fo r some forty
years with undim inished intensity, a secret, a vision never
put into w ords. A fte r all those years he was not quite sure
h im self w hether what he had seen was the open sea or m erely
the horizon, and the only true sea fo r him rem ained the
aquam arin e o f m aps, w here depths are designated by a d ark er
shade o f blue, shallows by a lighter shade.
T h at. I think, was why fo r years he refused to go away
on holiday, even at a time when union organizations and
tourist agencies sent people flocking to seaside resorts. His
opposition betrayed an odd anxiety, a fear o f being disillu­
sioned, as if a close encounter with the sea m ight destroy the
distant vision that had dazzled him on A p ril 28, 19 3 5 , when
fo r the first time in his life he glim psed, from afar, at
d aybreak, the glorious blue o f the Adriatic.
All the excuses he invented to postpone that encounter
with the sea w ere som ehow unconvincing: he d id n ’t want to

• 52 •
spend his summers like a vulgar tourist, he couldn’t spare
the money (which was not far from the truth), he had a low
tolerance for the sun (though he had spent his life in the
most blistering heat), and would we please leave him in peace,
he was just fine in Belgrade behind closed blinds. This chapter
in The Encyclopedia of the Dead goes into his romance with the
sea in great detail, from that first lyric sighting, in 1 9 3 5 , to
the actual encounter, face to face, some forty years later.
It took place—his first true encounter with the sea—in
1 9 7 5 >when at last, after an all-out family offensive, he agreed
to go to Rovinj with my mother and stay at the house of
some friends who were away for the summer.
He came back early, dissatisfied with the climate, dissat­
isfied with the restaurant service, dissatisfied with the televi­
sion programs, put out by the crowds, the polluted water,
the jellyfish, the prices and general “highway robbery.” Of
the sea itself, apart from complaints about pollution (“The
tourists use it as a public toilet”) and jellyfish (“They’re
attracted by human stench, like lice”), he said nothing, not a
word. He dismissed it with a wave of the hand. Only now do
I realize what he meant: his age-old dream of the Adriatic,
that distant vision, was finer and keener, purer and stronger
than the filthy water where fat men paddled about with oil-
slathered, “black as pitch” women.
That was the last time he went to the seaside for his
summer holiday. Now I know that something died in him
then, like a dear friend—a distant dream, a distant illusion
(if it was an illusion) that he had borne within him for forty
years.
As you can see, I’ve just made a forty-year leap forward
in his life, but chronologically speaking we are still back in
1 937» 1 9 3 ^> by which time D.M. had two daughters, myself

53
• *
and m y sister (the son was yet to come), conceived in the
depths o f the Serbian hinterland, villages like Petrovac-on-
the-M lava o r Despotovac, Stepojevac, Bukovac, C u prija, Je -
lasica, M atejevica, Cecina, V lasina, Knjazevac, o r Podvis. Draw
a m ap o f the region in your m ind, en largin g every one o f
the dots on the m ap o r m ilitary chart (1:50 ,0 0 0 ) to their
actual dim ensions; m ark the streets and houses he lived in;
then walk into a cou rtyard , a house; sketch the layout o f the
room s; in ventory the fu rn itu re and the orch ard ; and d o n ’t
forget the nam es o f the flowers grow ing in the garden behind
the house o r the news in the papers he reads, news o f the
R ib b en trop —M olotov pact, o f the desertion o f the Y ugoslav
royal govern m en t, o f the prices o f lard and o f coal, o f the
feats o f the flying ace Aleksic . . . T h at is how the m aster
encyclopedists go about it.
A s I ’ve said before, each event connected with his p er­
sonal destiny, every bom bing o f B elgrad e, every advance o f
G erm an troops to the east, and their every retreat, is consid­
ered from his point o f view and in accordance with how it
affects his life. T h e re is m ention o f a Palm oticeva Street
house, with all the essentials o f the building and its inhabitants
noted, because it was in the cellar o f that house that he— and
all o f us— sat out the bom bing o f B elg rad e; by the same
token, there is a description o f the country house in Stepojevac
(nam e o f ow ner, layout, etc., included) w here Father sheltered
us fo r the rest o f the w ar, as well as the prices o f bread, meat,
lard, poultry, and brandy. Y ou will find my fath er’s talk with
the K njazevac ch ie f o f police and a docum ent, dated 19 4 2,
relievin g him o f his duties, and if you read carefu lly you will
see him gath erin g leaves in the Botanical G arden s o r along
Palm oticeva Street, pressing them and pasting them into his
d a u g h te r’s herbariu m , w riting out “ D andelion (Taraxacum

* 54 *
officinale)” o r “ L in d en ('Tilia)” in the calligraphic hand he used
when en tering “ A driatic S ea” o r “ V lasina” on maps.
T h e vast river o f his life, that fam ily novel, branches o ff
into m any tributaries, and parallel to the account o f his stint
in the sugar refin ery in 19 4 3 -4 4 runs a kind o f digest or
chronicle o f the fate o f my m other and o f us, his children—
w hole volum es condensed into a few cogent paragraphs.
T h u s, his early rising is linked to my m other’s (she is o ff to
one village o r another to barter an old wall clock, part o f her
dow ry, fo r a hen o r a side o f bacon) and to our, the children ’s,
d ep artu re fo r school. T h is m orning ritual (the strains o f “ Lilli
M arlen e” in the background com e from a rad io som ew here
in the neighborhood) is m eant to convey the fam ily atm o­
sp here in the sacked su rveyor’s hom e d u rin g the years o f
occupation (m eager breakfasts o f chicory and zwieback) and
to give an idea o f the “ fashions” o f the time, w hen people
w ore earm u ffs, w ooden-soled shoes, and arm y-blanket over­
coats.
T h e fact that, while w orking at the Milisic R efin ery as a
day labo rer my fath er brough t hom e molasses u n d er his coat,
at great risk, has the sam e significance fo r The Encyclopedia o f
the Dead as the raid on the eye clinic in ou r im m ediate vicinity
o r the exploits o f m y U ncle C veja K arakasevic, a native o f
R um a, who w ould filch what he could from the G erm an
O fficers’ C lub at 7 Fren ch Street, w here he was em ployed as
a “ p u rvey o r.” T h e curious circum stance, also C veja K araka-
sevic’s d oing, that several times d u rin g the G erm an occupation
we dined on fattened carp (which w ould spend the night in
the large enam el tub in ou r bathroom ) and w ashed it down
with Fren ch cham pagne from the same O fficers’ Club, the
D rei H u saren , did not, o f course, escape the attention o f the
Encyclopedia's com pilers. B y the same token, and in keeping

* 55 *
 I

with the logic o f their p rogram (that there is nothing insig­

nificant in a hum an life, no hierarchy o f events), they entered
all o u r childhood illnesses— m um ps, tonsillitis, w hooping
cough, rashes— as well as a bout o f lice and my fath er’s lung
trouble (their diagnosis tallies with Dr. D jurovic’s: em phy­
sem a, due to heavy sm oking). But you will also find a bulletin
on the Bajlon ova M arketplace notice board with a list o f
executed hostages that includes close frien ds and acquaint­
ances o f my fath er’s; the nam es o f patriots whose bodies
sw ung from telegraph poles on T erazije, in the very center
o f B e lg rad e; the w ords o f a G erm an officer dem anding to
see his Ausweis at the station restaurant in N is; the description
o f a fietn ik w eddin g in Vlasotinci, with rifles going o ff all
throu gh the night.
T h e B e lg rad e street battles in O ctober 1944 are described
from his point o f view and from the perspective o f Palmoti-
ceva Street: the artillery rolling by, a dead horse lying on the
corn er. T h e d eafen in g roar o f the caterpillar treads m om en­
tarily drow ns out the interrogation o f a Volksdeutscher nam ed
Fran jo H erm an n, whose supplications pass easily through the
thin wall o f a neigh borin g building w here an O Z N A security
officer metes out the p eop le’s justice and reven ge. T h e burst
o f m achine-gun fire in the courtyard next d oor reverberatin g
harshly in the abrupt silence that follows the passing o f a
Soviet tank, a splash o f blood on the wall that my fath er
would see from the bathroom window, and the corpse o f the
un fortun ate H erm an n, in fetal position— they are all recorded
in The Encyclopedia of the Dead, accom panied by the com m en­
tary o f a hidden observer.
F o r The Encyclopedia of the Dead, history is the sum o f
hum an destinies, the totality o f ephem eral happenings. T h at
is why it records every action, every thought, every creative

* 56 ‘
breath, every spot height in the survey, every shovelful o f
m ud, every m otion that cleared a brick from the ruins.

T h e post my fath er held after the w ar in the Lan d Office,

which un dertook to rem easure and rerecord the land, as is
usual after m ajor historic upheavals, is accorded the detailed
treatm ent it dem ands: quality o f terrain, title deeds, new
nam es fo r fo rm er G erm an villages and new nam es fo r freshly
colonized settlements. N othing, as I say, is m issing: the clay
caking the ru b ber boots bought from a d ru n ken soldier; a
bad case o f d iarrh ea caused by some spoiled cabbage rolls
eaten at a dive in In d jija; an affair with a Bosnian wom an, a
waitress, in Som bor; a bicycle accident n ear C antavir and the
bruised elbow that cam e o f it; a night ride in a cattle car on
the Sen ta-Su botica line; the purchase o f a plum p goose to
take hom e fo r a N ew Y e a r ’s celebration; a spree with some
Russian en gineers in Banovici; a m olar pulled, in the field,
n ear a well; a rally at which he got soaked to the bone; the
death o f Steva B o gd anov, surveyor, who stepped on a trip­
w ire m ine at the edge o f som e woods and with w hom he had
played billiards the previous day; the return o f Aleksic, the
stunt pilot, to the sky above K alem egdan ; serious alcohol
poisoning in the village o f M rakodol; a ride in a crow ded
truck over the m ud dy road between Zrenjanin and E lem ir;
a qu arrel with a new boss, a m an nam ed Suput, som ew here
in the region o f Ja s a T om ic; the purchase o f a ton o f Banovici
coal after q ueu in g from fo u r in the m orn in g at the D anube
R ailw ay Y a rd , in —1 5 0 w eather; the purchase o f a m arble-
top table at the flea m arket; a breakfast o f “ A m erican ” cheese
and pow dered m ilk in the Bosnia W orkers’ C anteen; his
fath er’s illness and death; the prescribed visit to the cem etery
forty days later; a bitter q uarrel with one Petar Ja n k o vic and

•57 *
one Sava D ragovic, who advocated the Stalinist line; their
argum en ts and his counterargum ents (which ended with my
fa th e r’s m uffled “ F------ Stalin !” ).
T h u s, the Encyclopedia plunges us into the spirit o f the
time, into its political events.
T h e fe a r in which my fath er lived and the silence I
m yself rem em ber— a heavy, oppressive silence— are con­
strued by the book as infectious: one day he learned that that
sam e Petar Ja n k o v ic, a colleague and distant relative, was
rep o rtin g to the State Security B u ild in g every m orning at six
fo r a talk (as a result o f having been denounced by the
aforem en tion ed D ragovic), and would arrive at the office late,
his face black and swollen from blows and lack o f sleep; and
on it went, every m orning at sunup, for six m onths or so,
until Petar recalled the nam es o f some other people who
shared his Russian delusions and listened to R adio Moscow.
Passing over the side stream s— quarrels, reconciliations,
spa visits (a whole fam ily chronicle in m iniature)— passing
over the things that my father would bring hom e and that
the Encyclopedia inventories with tender, loving care, I will
m ention only an O rion radio set, the Collected Works o f M axim
G ork y, an olean d er in an enorm ous wooden bucket, and a
barrel fo r pickling cabbage, as I find them m ore im portant
than the other trifles the book goes into, such as the lined
fabric I bought fo r him with my first wages and the bottle o f
M artell cognac he dow ned in a single evening.
B u t The Encyclopedia o f the Dead is concerned with m ore
than m aterial goods: it is not a double-entry led ger or a
catalogue, n or is it a list o f nam es like the Book o f K ings or
G enesis, though it is that as well; it deals with spiritual
m atters, p eo p le’s views o f the w orld, o f G od, their doubts
about the existence o f the beyond, their m oral standards. Y et

* 58 *
what is most am azing is its unique fusion o f external and
internal: it lays great stress on concrete facts, then creates a
logical bond between the facts and m an, o r what we call m an’s
soul. A n d w hereas the com pilers leave certain objective data
w ithout com m entary— the conversion o f tile stoves to elec­
tricity (1969 ), the appearan ce o f a bald spot on m y fath er’s
head o r his abrupt slide into gluttony, the refresh in g eld er­
b erry drin k he m ade from a Politika recipe— they do in terpret
his sudden passion fo r stam p collecting in old age as com ­
pensation fo r his prolon ged immobility. T h e y have no doubt
that p eerin g at stam ps through a m agnifyin g glass represents,
in part, the repressed fantasies so often lurkin g in staid,
stable people with little proclivity fo r travel and adventure—
the sam e frustrated petit-bourgeois rom anticism that d eter­
m ined F ath er’s attitude tow ard the sea. (H e replaced jo u rn eys
an d distant horizons with m ore convenient, im aginary w an­
derin gs, usin g his first gran d son ’s interest in the butterfly
w orld o f stam ps to keep from ap p earin g ridiculous in the
eyes o f others, and in his own.)
T h is, as you can see, is an area o f the spiritual landscape
quite n ear to the riv e r’s m outh, w here frien d s’ and relatives’
fun erals follow so closely on one another that every m an—
even a m an less inclined than m y fath er to silent m editation—
turns p hilosopher, insofar as philosophy is the contem plation
o f the m eaning o f hum an existence.
Dissatisfied with his life, consum ed by the m elancholy o f
old age that nothing can assuage, neither devoted children
n or affectionate gran dchildren n or the relative calm o f every­
day life, he started gru m bling and getting d ru n k m ore often.
W hen he drank, he w ould burst into fits o f an ger quite
un expected in so m ild a m an with so gentle a smile. H e would
curse G od , heaven, earth, the Russians, the A m ericans, the

* 59 *
G erm ans, the governm ent, and all those responsible fo r
gran tin g him such a m iserable pension after he had slaved a
lifetim e, but most o f all he cursed television, which, insolent
to the point o f insult, filled the void o f his evenings by
b rin gin g into the house the gran d illusion o f life.
T h e next day, him self again and m utely contrite, he
w ould feed the goldfinch on the balcony, talk to it, whistle to
it, lifting the cage high above his head as if brandishing a
lantern in the m urk o f hum an tribulations. O r, taking o ff his
pajam as at last, he would dress with a groan , put on his hat,
and walk to T akovska Street, to the main post office, and buy
stam ps. T h e n , in the aftern oon , sipping coffee while perched
on the edge o f an arm chair, his grandson at his side, he
w ould arra n ge the stam ps in album s with the help o f delicate
tweezers.
O ccasionally, in m om ents o f despair, he bem oaned his
past, w ailing as the elderly are wont to do: G od h ad n ’t granted
him a real education, he would go ignorant to his grave,
n ever having known well-being, never having known real
seas o r cities, n ever having known what a rich and cultivated
m an can know.
A n d his trip to T rieste ended as ingloriously as his trip
to Rovinj.
It was, in his sixty-sixth year, his first bo rd er crossing,
and it, too, took a good deal o f pushing and pulling. N or
w ere his argum en ts any easier to counter: an intelligent
person did not go to a country whose lan guage he did not
know ; he had no intention o f m aking a fortun e on the black
m arket; he had no cravin g fo r m acaroni or Chianti and would
m uch p re fe r an everyday M ostar zilavka or a Prokuplje white,
at hom e.
A n d yet we persuad ed him to apply fo r a passport.

• 60 •
 H e cam e back ill-hum ored, ill-tem pered, crushed: he
had had a fallin g out with M other (the shoes she had bought
him leaked and pinched), and the police had searched them
and ransacked their luggage on the return trip to B elgrade.
N eed I point out that the trip to T rieste— the dow npour,
with Fath er w aiting um brella-less u n der the aw ning o f the
H otel A d riatico like a lost, drenched cur while M other
rum m aged through shoes on the Ponte R osso— receives in
the Encyclopedia the place an episode o f the sort deserves?
His only consolation d u rin g the disastrous T rieste ja u n t came
from bu yin g som e flow er seeds outside a shop there. (For­
tunately, the packets had pictures o f the flowers on them and
clearly m arked prices, so he d id n ’t need to enter into n ego­
tiations with the saleswoman.) B y then D.M . had become
quite “ involved in cultivating decorative flow ers,” as the
Encyclopedia puts it. (It continues with an inventory o f the
flowers in pots and window boxes on the fron t and rear
balconies.)
H e had sim ultaneously begun to fill his time by painting
floral patterns all over the house, a kind o f floral contagion.
T h is sudd en explosion o f artistic talent cam e as a surprise.
Dissatisfied— as he was dissatisfied with everything— with the
w ay a retired officer, a neophyte housepainter, had plastered
the bathroom (singing “T h e Partisans’ M arch” all day long
to pace his brushstrokes and leaving behind large, unevenly
covered areas), my fath er rolled up his sleeves and set
d ogged ly to w ork. H aving failed to rem ove the dark spots
on the wall, he decided to cam ouflage them with oil paint,
follow ing the outlines o f the m oisture stains. A n d thus the
first flow er— a gigantic bellflow er or a lily, heaven only knows
what it was— cam e into being.
W e all praised him. T h e neighbors d ro p p ed in to view

• 61 •
his hand iw ork. Even his favorite grandson expressed sincere
adm iration. T h a t was how it all started. N ext cam e the
bathroom w indow , which he covered with tiny cornflower-
blue posies, but he left them slanted and unfinished, so that
the design, painted directly on the glass, gave the illusion o f
a w indblown curtain.
From then on, he painted all day, unflaggingly, a cigarette
d an glin g from his lips. (A nd in the silence we could hear the
w heezing o f his lungs, like bellows.) H e painted flowers that
bore little resem blance to real flowers, painted them all over
old scratched trunks, china lam pshades, cognac bottles, plain
glass vases, N escafe ja rs, and w ooden cigar boxes. On the
aquam arin e backgroun d o f a large soda-w ater siphon he
painted the nam es o f B elg rad e cafes in the lettering he had
once used fo r islands on m aps: T h e B rion i, T h e G u lf o f
K otor, T h e Seagull, T h e Sailor, T h e D aybreak, C afe Serbia,
T h e V idin G ate, T h e Istanbul Gate, T h e Skadarlija, T h e
T h r e e Hats, T h e T w o D eer, U n d er the Lin den , T h re e
B u n ches o f G rap es, T h e Sum atovac, T h e Seven Days, T h e
M arch on the D rina, T h e K alem egdan, T h e K olarac, T h e
M otherland, T h e Plowm an, T h e O brenovac, T h e O plenac,
T h e T o w n o f Dusan, T h e R iver’s M outh, T h e Sm ederevo,
T h e H u n ter’s H orn, T h e Q uestion M ark, T h e Last Chance.

T h e curious fact that he died on his first gran dson ’s

twelfth birthday did not escape the com pilers’ attention. N or
did they fail to note his resistance to ou r nam ing his last
gran dson after him. We thought that we w ere indulging his
vanity and that he would take it as a sign o f special attention
and favo r, but all he did was grum ble and I could see in his
eyes a glim m er o f the terro r that would flash behind his
glasses a year later when the certainty o f the end suddenly

* 6 2 ’
daw ned on him. T h e succession o f the quick and the dead,
the universal m yth o f the chain o f generations, the vain solace
m an invents to m ake the thought o f dying m ore acceptable—
in that instant my fath er experien ced them all as an insult;
it was as though by the m agical act o f bestowing his nam e
upon a new born child, no m atter how m uch his flesh and
blood, we w ere “ pushing him into the grave.” I did not yet
know that he had discovered a suspicious growth in the area
o f his groin and believed, or p erhaps even knew fo r sure,
that, like a tuber, a strange, poisonous plant was sprouting
in his intestines.
O ne o f the last chapters o f the Encyclopedia details the
fu n eral cerem ony: the nam e o f the priest who adm inistered
the last rites, a description o f the wreaths, a list o f the people
w ho accom panied him from the chapel, the num ber o f candles
lit fo r his soul, the text o f the obituary in Politika.
T h e oration delivered over the bier by N ikola Besevic, a
L an d O ffice colleague o f m any years’ standing (“ C om rade
D juro served his fatherlan d with equal honor b efo re the war,
d u rin g the occupation, and after the w ar in the period o f the
revitalization and reconstruction o f ou r ravaged and sorely
afflicted cou n try” ), is given in full, because, despite certain
exaggeration s and platitudes, despite lapses in rhetoric, Be-
sevic’s oration over the body o f his dead com rade and fellow
countrym an clearly exem plified som ething o f the m essage
and principles represen ted by the great Encyclopedia o f the
Dead (“ His m em ory shall live fo rev er and ever. Praise and
glory be unto him !” ).
W ell, that is m ore o r less the end, w here m y notes stop.
I shall not cite the sorry inventory o f items he left behind:
shirts, passport, docum ents, eyeglasses (the light o f day
glistening pain fully in em pty lenses ju st rem oved from their

• 63 •
case)— in other w ords, the items passed on to my m other, at
the hospital, the day after his death. It is all painstakingly set
dow n in the Encyclopedia; not a single h an d kerch ief is missing,
not the M orava cigarettes or the issue o f Ilustrovana Politika
with a crossw ord puzzle pardy com pleted in his hand.
T h e n com e the nam es o f the doctors, nurses, and visitors,
the day and h o u r o f the operation (when Dr. Petrovic cut
him open and sewed him shut, realizing it was useless to
op erate: the sarcom a had spread to the vital organs). I h aven ’t
the strength to describe the look he gave me as he said
goodbye on the hospital stairs a day or two b efore the
op eration ; it contained all o f life and all the terro r that comes
o f know ing death. Everything a living man can know of death.

A n d so I m anaged in those few hours, frozen and in

tears, to skim through all the pages dealing with him. I lost
all track o f time. H ad I spent an hour in the icy library, or
was day b reakin g outside? As I say, I lost all track o f time
and place. I hastened to put down as m uch inform ation as
possible; I w anted som e evidence, fo r my hours o f despair,
that my fath er’s life had not been in vain, that there were
still people on earth who recorded and accorded value to
every life, every affliction, every hum an existence. (M eager
consolation, but consolation nonetheless.)
Sud den ly, som ew here in the final pages devoted to him,
I noticed a flower, one unusual flower, that I first took for a
vignette or the schem atic draw in g o f a plant preserved in the
w orld o f the dead as an exam ple o f extinct flora. T h e caption,
how ever, indicated that it was the basic floral pattern in my
fath er’s draw ings. My hands trem bling, I began to copy it.
M ore than anything it resem bled a gigantic peeled and cloven
oran ge, crisscrossed with fine red lines like capillaries. F or a

• 6 4 -
m om ent I was disappointed. I was fam iliar with all the
draw ings my fath er had done in his leisure time on walls,
boards, bottles, and boxes, and none was anything like this
one. Y es, I said to m yself, even they can m ake a mistake. A n d
then, after copying the gigantic peeled orange into my
notebook, I read the concluding p aragrap h and let out a
scream . I awoke drenched in sweat. I im m ediately wrote
dow n all o f the dream I rem em bered. A n d this is what
rem ains o f it . . .
Do you know what was in the last p aragrap h? T h at D.M.
took up painting at the time the first sym ptom s o f cancer
ap p eared . A n d that therefore his obsession with floral pat­
terns coincided with the p rogress o f the disease.
W hen I showed the draw in g to Dr. Petrovic, he con­
firm ed, with som e surprise, that it looked exactly like the
sarcom a in m y fath er’s intestine. A n d that the efflorescence
had doubtless gone on fo r years.

• 6 5 -
 The Legend of the Sleepers

They remained in the cave for three hundred years,

to which another nine must be added.
Koran, XVIII :25
 [ 1]
T h e y lay on their backs on rou gh , wet sackcloth that was
som ewhat m ildew ed from the hum idity and had grow n
thread bare in places from their m ovem ents, their twitchings,
their bones w h erever their bodies had com e into contact with
the cam el hair— at the back o f the neck, at shou lder blades
an d elbows, n ear a p rotru d in g pelvis, beneath heels and calves
stiff as distaffs.
T h e y lay on their backs, with their hands crossed in
p ray er like corpses, on wet, rotting sackcloth that had w orn
thin beneath their bodies from the rare unconscious twitching
o f w eary sleepers, sleepers w eary o f living and m oving but
sleepers nonetheless; fo r their limbs did m ove, though im ­
perceptibly to the hum an eye, and the sackcloth beneath
them had w orn thin in places w here it had been pressed
against the rock o f the cave by the weight o f their sleep and
their stone-like bodies, w here it had been exposed to the
twitching o f hum an clay, the rubbing o f bones, and the
scrapin g o f diam ond -hard rock.
T h e y lay on their backs in the tranquil repose o f great
sleepers, but the m ovem ents o f their limbs in the darkness
o f time w ore thin the wet sackcloth beneath them , gnaw ing

• 69 •
away at the fibers o f the cam el hair, which w ere abraded
im perceptibly, as when w ater, coupled with time, bores into
the h ard heart o f stone.
T h e y lay on their backs in a dark cave on M ount Celius,
with their hands crossed in p rayer like corpses, all three o f
them , D ionysius and his frien d M alchus and, a short distance
away, Jo h n , the saintly shepherd, and his dog, Q itm ir.
Beneath their eyelids w eighed down by sleep, beneath
their eyelids anointed with the balsam and hem lock o f sleep,
there was no sign o f the greenish crescents o f their dead
eyes, fo r the darkness was too great, the moist darkness o f
time, the m urk o f the cave o f eternity.
From the walls and vaults o f the cave, eternal w ater
d rip p ed d ro p by d ro p and flowed in an all but inaudible
m u rm u r throu gh the veins o f the rocks like the blood in the
veins o f the sleepers, and from time to time a drop fell on
their torpid bodies, on their stone-like faces, and ran down
the w rinkles in their foreh ead s into the conch o f an ear,
lin gered in the rou n d ed folds o f an eyelid, trickled across a
green ish eyeball like an icy tear, or cam e to a halt on the
lashes o f a stone eye.
Y et they did not awaken.
D eaf, their ears p lugged by the lead o f sleep and the
pitch o f darkness, they lay m otionless, staring into the d a rk ­
ness o f their beings, the darkness o f time and eternity, which
had turn ed their sleeping hearts to stone, which had halted
their breath and the m ovem ent o f their lungs, which had
frozen the m u rm u r o f blood in their veins.
T h e only thing that grew — protected by the m oisture o f
the cave and the im m obility o f the bodies, stim ulated by the
ashes o f oblivion and the frenzy o f dream s— was the hair on
their heads and the stubble on their faces, the down on their

• 70 •
bodies and the dow n u n d er their arm s; the only thing that
grew in their sleep — invisibly, as w ater raises up and casts
dow n invisibly— w ere their nails, crackling.

[ 2]
T h e youngest, Dionysius, who had a rose at his heart and
w ho lay betw een his frien d M alchus and Jo h n the shepherd,
was the first to awake, suddenly, as i f touched by the wind
o f time and m em ory. T h e first thing he heard was the
d rip p in g o f w ater from the vaults o f the cave; the first thing
he felt was a thorn in his heart. In un dated with silence, his
consciousness, a w eary sleeper’s consciousness steeped in the
moist darkness o f the cave, was unable to recover, fo r his
body was torpid from long repose and his soul was clouded
by dream s.
In his soul he called out the nam e o f his L o rd G od,
called out the sweet nam e o f his Prisca, and recalled every­
thing that had happen ed , recalled it with the h o rro r o f a
m an dyin g and the jo y o f a m an in love. F or what had
h app en ed to his soul and to his body— he no lon ger knew
w hen— seem ed once m ore like a dream to him ; perhaps it
was no m ore than a d ream now, a nightm are o f life and a
n ightm are o f death, a nightm are o f unrequited love, a
n ightm are o f time and eternity.
T o the left and to the right o f him he could feel the
bodies o f his frien d M alchus and Jo h n the shepherd en gu lfed
in a dead sleep; he could feel them even though they slept
w ithout breath o r m ovem ent, as dum b as m um m ies, lacking
even the o d o r o f hum an bodies, the stench o f hum an decay;
he felt the presence o f their disem bodied essence, sensed,

• 71 •
som ew here to the right, near Jo h n ’s legs, the disem bodied,
m um m ified body o f the sh ep h erd ’s dog, its fron t paws
exten d ed, lying at its m aster’s side and keepin g a life-and-
death watch over his dead sleep.

3
[ ]

His stone-like body, his torpid limbs still stretched out on the
th read bare sackcloth whose m oisture he did not feel, Dio­
nysius p ain fully parted the fingers o f his crossed hands,
fingers so stiff from sleep and imm obility that they seem ed
to have grow n together, and he recalled his body and m aterial
being, recalled his heart, which— lo!— had com e alive in him,
as had his innards and his lungs and his eyes sealed by the
lead o f sleep and his m em ber, cold and asleep, as distant as
sin was distant from him.
A n d he turned his consciousness back in the heart o f the
cave, in its opaque, pitch-black darkness, and listened fo r the
eternal clepsydra o f time, fo r he wished to place his m aterial
being back in time, to place his consciousness and body in
the heart o f time and return to the time befo re this dream
and this cave. A n d his first recollection was o f the sweet nam e
o f Prisca, fo r she had been present in his dream s and his
reality, in his own heart and the heart o f time, in his sleeping
heart and his w aking heart.
A t first he did not know what to do, as he did not wish
to aw aken his w eary, som nolent com panions, his accom plices
in dream s, and he dived with his own consciousness into the
river o f time to separate dream from reality, to g ra sp — with
the aid o f his consciousness and his m em ories, with the aid
o f his L o rd G od to whom he p rayed — what had happened.

• 72 •
 H ow ever, there was nothing in him but m em ories o f his
own dream and his aw akening, what had been and what was
now; there was nothing in him yet but the indissoluble
darkness prevailin g b efore the Creation, b efore Genesis, when
the L o rd had not yet divided light from darkness and day
from night, w hen the L o rd had not yet distinguished dream
from reality and reality from dream .
A n d had it not been fo r the rose at his heart, the sweet
nam e o f Prisca, h er m em ory etched in his body, h er presence
in his heart, his skin, his consciousness, his em pty innards,
he w ould not yet be fully awake.

4
[ ]

F o r she was no lon ger the Prisca o f yore, the Prisca o f his
fo rm er dream s, the Prisca he had foun d at the gates o f his
recent sleep, in the heart o f his recent aw akening. Alas, she
was no lon ger the Prisca unto whom he had m ade eternal
vows, no lo n ger his Prisca o f earlier dream s and an earlier
reality; she was not— G od forgive him — the same wom an, the
d au gh ter o f E m p ero r Decius, enem y o f Christianity, o r the
sam e d ream o f the sam e w om an; she was not his Prisca, who
had m ade eternal vows unto him ; she was another w om an
with Prisca’s nam e and resem bling Prisca yet not the sam e
Prisca, sim ilar to h er in shape, but no, not she.
A n d he conjured up the living, the all too pain fully living
m em ory o f h er im age, the im age o f his Prisca, but it was now
the im age o f two w om en conflated by time and m em ory into
one, without limits o r bounds, fo r they w ere m ade o f the
dust and ashes o f two m em ories, the clay o f two successive
creations into which sleep had breathed a soul, his soul.

* 73 *
 A n d the two im ages m ingled in his consciousness, his
m em ory, and he kneaded the clay o f which they w ere m ade,
and in the end he could no lon ger distinguish two wom en,
two d ream s, but only one, Prisca o f the alm ond eyes, his
Prisca, present and past, and that m em ory filled him with jo y
and strength sufficient to tear him away from sleep yet
insufficient to m ove his torpid limbs, fo r he was overcom e
with a fe a r o f his own thoughts now that he had w ound up
the thread o f his m em ory and recalled everythin g that had
preceded his sleep.

5
[ ]

A n d he saw the light o f the torches, which like stars shone

dow n from the vault o f the cave above their heads, and he
recalled and heard the m urm u r o f the thron g that had
gath ered round them and then the silence that reigned for
a m om ent and the shout and flight o f the crow d when Jo h n ,
the saintly shep herd, raised his arm s to the heavens and
called out the nam e o f the L ord .
Was it a dream ? Was it the dream o f a som nam bulist, a
d ream within a dream , and hence m ore real than a real
d ream , since it cannot be m easured against w aking, since it
cannot be m easured by consciousness, because it is a dream
from which one awakens into another dream ? O r was it a
god-like dream , a d ream o f time and eternity? A dream
without illusions and doubts, a dream with its own language
and senses, a d ream o f both soul and body, a dream o f
consciousness and corporality both, a dream with clear-cut
boun daries, with its own lan gu age and sound, a dream that
is palpable, that can be exp lored with taste, sm ell, and hearing,

‘ 74 *
a dream stronger than waking, a dream such as only the
dead p erhaps can dream , a dream that cannot be denied by
a blade nicking the chin, fo r blood flows at once, and
everythin g one does is but a p ro o f o f reality and w aking; the
skin bleeds in the dream as does the heart, the body rejoices
in the d ream as does the soul, there are no m iracles in the
dream other than life; the only way out o f the dream is to
aw aken into death.
T h e y had no time even fo r leave-taking, fo r each o f
them was absorbed in his soul and the absolution o f his sins,
and each to h im self and then all in unison they began
w hisperin g prayers with their d ry lips, fo r they knew the
thron g w ould return and had left only to sum m on Decius’
legionaries or read y the wild-anim al cages, leaving guards at
the entrance o f the cave until all was set fo r their slaughter,
in which the populace, the ungodly masses, w ould revel.

[ 6]

A n d they cam e again bearin g torches and lanterns that lit up

the cave with a new and pow erful light, cam e singing songs
and psalm s, and with children bearin g candles and icons, and
the cave was lit up with their pious song and prayers, the
voices o f the priests resou n ding am ong the rocks, the voices
o f the children, all boys in white, like a choir o f heavenly
hosts.
B e fo re long, the cave was filled with the sm oke o f torches
and the frag ran ce o f incense, and everyone sang the glory
o f the L o rd in a loud voice; the priests and the children and
the three o f them , Dionysius, M alchus, and Jo h n , the saintly

* 75 *
sh ep h erd , they all sang psalms to the glory o f Je s u s the
N azaren e, the m iracle w orker and redeem er.
Was that, too, a dream ? Was it a vision, or w ere they at
the heavenly gates? Was it the end o f a nightm are and dream ,
or was it their ascension?
H e gazed upon them with a troubled soul, as those in
the gallery gazed upon the three men. A n d in the light o f
the torches he saw their faces and their raim ents, and he was
greatly su rp rised to find that they w ere scarlet and crim son,
m ade o f sheepskin dyed red, trim m ed in gold and silver and
bronze. A n d befo re them they held icons gleam ing with gold
and silver and precious stones.

[V]

T h e n several strap pin g youn g m en cam e forth from the

crow d, bowed befo re them , and, having m ade the sign o f the
cross and kissed their hands and feet, lifted them one by one,
as effortlessly as i f they were children, and carried them
across the cave’s rocky floor, holding them carefully, like
icons, scarcely touching them with their pow erful hands,
while the crow d lit their steps and their way, still singing the
glory o f the L ord .
A t the head o f the procession they carried Jo h n , the
saintly sh ep h erd, his hands clasped in p rayer, w hispering his
sim ple p rayer, which G od p refers to all others; next they
carried M alchus, who had a long, white beard and was
arrayed , like Jo h n , in bright robes em broidered with gold;
and last, rocking slightly in the pow erful arm s o f his bearers
as in a boat, cam e Dionysius.
Was that, too, a dream ?

• 76 •
 A n d he saw the shaved heads o f the youn g m en on
w hose shoulders the litter conveying his body rested, a body
he, too, felt was as light as that o f a child or a feeble old man.
T h is ascension— was it, too, a dream ? A n d this singing and
the eyes o f the youn g m en carryin g him, who d ared not gaze
up at him , so that all he saw w ere thick eyebrows beneath
low foreh ead s and lashes below half-shut lids; the bare,
p ow erful necks and, lit by a ray o f light, the crowns o f the
heads o f those carryin g M alchus befo re him as they m ounted
a slope, m oving closer to the sky and the heavenly paradise,
w hile the crow d standing on either side o f them lifted torches
and lanterns high above their heads, and he, not d arin g to
look them in the eye, not even fo r an instant, lest he should
find beneath the half-shut lids the vacant, greenish eyeballs
o f the som niferous som nam bulists who w alked in their sleep
and chanted psalms and prayers, who in their deep sleep,
their som nam bulant sleep, carried the three o f them past the
cave’s stone w hirlpools, down deep gorges and up slippery
cliffs, across vast, capacious halls and tem ples o f crystal foam ,
th rou gh n arrow passageways and low vaults.
A n d w hence their sure step, the sublim e calm with which
they navigated all hazards, carryin g their load with skill and
grace, scarcely even touching it with their p ow erful hands?
In vain did he try to dispel his doubts, to find a gaze, a
hum an eye in which to glim pse his face, in which to discover
his im age, p ro o f that he was awake. I f only he could catch
the eye o f a child, one o f the angels in white robes standing
above him on either side o f the path, to his left and to his
right, in the crystal gallery, as in a tem ple— but in vain. No
sooner did he think that one o f the children was glancing at
him with its angelic, hum an eyes, no sooner did he think that
one o f them was seeking out his glance, no sooner did he

. 7? .
turn his eyes in its direction than it tore its eyes away, low ering
the curtain o f its leaden lids and opaque lashes while contin­
u in g to sing its song and, eyes now tightly shut, to open its
rou n d fish-like m outh, and he, Dionysius, felt a certain
hypocrisy in that hidden glance, that fish-like m outh, an
intentional absence, a fear or respect, o r the torpor o f a
som nam bulist.
F o r only som nam bulists can walk as they walked, som ­
nam bulists guid ed across the abyss by a sovereign hand and
by the d arin g o f those who do not see the deep chasm beneath
them and by the insanity o f those sustained by the pow er o f
their ancient divinity, the pagan pow er o f bodies that still
recall the faith o f ancestors who bowed down to the moon,
their procession and their outstretched arm s a tribute to
Lu n a, pagan goddess o f the m oon, whence the souls o f their
dep arted call down to them , fo r that procession is m erely the
call o f blood and the call o f time. A nd he dared not utter a
w ord, lest he should awaken the som niferous pagans, the
som nam bulists, who had gathered in the cave to celebrate
their festival, to honor their pagan goddess— fo r surely there
was a full m oon out.

8
[ ]

A n d he d ared not utter a w ord save the p rayer he w hispered

to him self, scarcely m oving his lips, fo r he feared he would
aw aken from the som nam bulant spell and hurl them all
h ead lon g into the m urky depths over which they w ere now
carryin g him , tread in g barefoot and all but soundlessly
th rou gh the moist cave, which sparkled with glistening drops;
his voice and his aw akening w ould have draw n them all back

• 78 -
into the m urky chasm out o f which the som nam bulists w ere
now carryin g them , up the slope, h igher and higher, and in
their fe a r o f aw akening they w ould all have been hurled
headlon g into the abyss yaw ning below them , deep into the
d ark hole o f the cave, which not even the light o f the torches
could reach but w hose shafts and gorges w ere ever present
in his alert, som nam bulist consciousness. A n d he heard a
stone fall beneath the bare feet o f those carryin g him, heard
it tum bling dow n, skipping from rock to rock, fleet and
resonant, then m ore hesitant and hushed, retreatin g like an
echo, but the sound n ever ceased, it m erely fad ed , fo r it did
not touch bottom any m ore than did his sem i-wakeful, semi-
som nolent consciousness.
Was it a dream or a som nam bulist illusion o f his semi-
som nolent consciousness, a dream o f his pagan body, descend­
ing, as it did, from p agan ancestors, w orshippers o f the m oon
goddess, the full-m oon goddess, ancestors who w ere now
calling to him. Surely there was a full m oon out or a new
m oon, and the souls o f his ancestors w ere aw akening, the
souls o f his prim ogenitors, calling his pagan body, tem pting
his p agan blood.
O r was it the ascension o f his soul, the m om ent when
soul separates from body, Christian soul from p agan body,
sin ful body from sinful soul, to which m ercy is granted, whose
sins are forgiven?
W ere they a dream , the d og carried alongside Jo h n ,
arm s crad lin g it like the Lam b o f G od, and the boy pressing
the d og Q itm ir to his bosom like a sacrificial lam b or pagan
idol and carryin g it over gorges and ravines, clasping it to
his heart like the G ood Sh ep herd , his eyes pinned to the
gro u n d , ven tu rin g not so m uch as a glance into Q itm ir’s
cloudy green-blue eyes veiled by the cataracts o f sleep, eyes

* 79 *
green and blue, like plum s, eyes h a lf open, all but extin ­
guished and blind. N or did he, Dionysius, d are catch Q itm ir’s
eye now that the boy with the dog had paused at his side to
let the litter bearers, h u ggin g the groun d and virtually on all
fou rs, throu gh the n arrow passage; and he, Dionysius, felt
as though he w ere hoverin g above the rocks, ever in the sam e
position, h a lf reclining, his head slightly raised and resting
on the chest o f one o f his bearers; and he heard only the
b earers’ quiet, restrained breathing. T h e boy and the dog
had d isap p eared , fo r the boy had paused b efo re the narrow
neck o f the cave to let through the men who w ere carryin g
the three o f them , that is, Jo h n , M alchus, and him, Dionysius;
the boy, his eyes pinned to the groun d, had rem ained behind
at the entrance to the narrow cleft in the cave to wait his
turn, still clutching the green-eyed Q itm ir in his arms.

9
[ ]

Light flickered in from both ends o f the narrow passagew ay,

behind him barely visible, ahead o f him, at the end o f the
tunnel, b righ ter and brighter, filtering through the sharp
teeth o f Polyphem u s’ massive, gap in g jaw s, fo r such it clearly
was: the entry to the cave o f long ago, and he recalled it now
as he recalled the story Jo h n the saintly shepherd had told
him then, in that first dream or first reality; now the pas­
sagew ay had been w idened, or he only im agined it to be so,
and he could see from the shoulders o f his bearers that the
wall o f the cave had been sm oothed over at this point, he
could see the gap in g ja w and its broken eyeteeth, shiny, even,
white and crystal-like at the tip, with fresh diagonal notches,

• 80 •
absolutely white and as dazzling as salt, on short rust-colored
stum ps.
Was that, too, a dream ?
A n d the cripples who started sw arm ing about their feet,
w rigglin g like worm s, kissing their hands and feet, b efore
the strong bearers w ere able to carry them out o f the cave.
A n d the entrance to the cave, which he rem em bered well for
its desecrated vaults and the draw ings that shepherds had
scratched into the hard stone with rocks or knives— fo r there
had once been false idols and asses’ heads draw n on the walls
by the sinful hands o f shepherds, and, as high as the hum an
hand could reach, lewd figures, and there had been the stench
o f hum an excrem ent.
A n d now— lo!— the lewd figures and asses’ heads had
been erased, though fresh traces o f scraping and filing w ere
still visible alon g the rock, and the smell o f hum an excrem ent
was gone, it, too, doubtless having been recently rem oved;
there w ere now lanterns and frag ran t torches h angin g from
chinks in the walls o f the cave, the vault was covered with
flow ers and laurel w reaths and icons inlaid with gold, and
the floor was spread with a carpet o f flowers, now tram pled
by the bare feet o f the litter bearers while the people sang
psalm s and w hispered prayers.
T h e blind and the crippled, w riggling like worm s,
sw arm ed about their feet, kissing their bodies and beggin g
them in w ords bitter and terrifyin g, beggin g them in the
nam e o f faith and charity, the sun and the m oon, life and
death, heaven and hell, b eggin g them , im plorin g them to
give them back their sight, heal their w ounds and deadened
limbs, give them back the light o f day, the light o f faith.
W ere they a dream o r a nightm are, the cripples who
begged fo r alms, the p oor wretches who beat one another

• 81 •
with their crutches and scratched one an oth er’s eyes out fo r
the m ercy o f his body, fo r the m ercy o f being healed— was
that a d ream ? His inability to utter a w ord to them, to do a
thing fo r them , these poor wretches, these cripples whom
the strap p in g youn g m en rem oved from the path o f the
procession, pushin g them aside, blind and frail, lam e and
paralyzed— was that a dream ? His inability to grasp it all, the
m iracle, the su fferin g, his own disability, his incapacity to do
an yth ing fo r the wretches who begged and pleaded with him,
to tell them o f his incapacity, ask them for their m ercy, fo r a
hum an w ord, to im plore them to believe him, believe in his
incapacity, to win them over with im precations and sup p li­
cations so that they m ight tell him what was happ en in g to
him , w hether it was all a dream , those dead, blind eyes
turn in g up at him, vacant and gruesom e, rolling, bloody and
gru esom e, those blind eyes seeking him out and finding him,
fo r they w ere the only eyes he saw, the only eyes that turned
to him , that took pity and turned to him, fo r not even the
cripples who d ragged them selves up to him on their stum ps
to kiss his feet with their icy lips, not even they granted him
a glance, even they em braced him and pleaded with him
without looking at him, raising only their m utilated limbs in
a h a lf em brace and clasping their stum ps in a gruesom e h a lf
p ray er cut o ff at the elbows in the m onstrous wrinkles and
seam s o f m utilated h a lf m em bers.
Was it a nightm are, his ascension? Was it a nightm are o f
the p u rg ato ry through which his body had to pass, was it the
final chastisem ent, the final rebuke to a sinful body, that
scene o f hum an h o rro r w hereby the soul, b efo re its ascension,
m ight recall the inferno?
Was it a nightm are or perhaps only the C alvary o f his
body and soul, hell itself, w here they w ere taking his body to

• 82 •
be roasted and quartered , and the prayers, the heavenly
singing, the light and the procession atop shoulders, on the
wings o f angels, w ere they nothing but the final tem ptation
o f a sinful soul, w hereby it m ight recall paradise lost, the
garden s o f paradise and delights o f paradise o f which it was
not w orthy, the L o rd bearin g him past these garden s on the
w ings o f fallen angels that his soul m ight experien ce rap ture
and bliss, that it m ight experien ce the fragran ce o f incense
and m yrrh , the balm o f prayer, and thereby su ffer the
torm ents o f hell m ore acutely, fo r its m em ory would then
rin g with p rayers and songs, fo r its m em ory w ould keep fresh
the fragran ces o f frag ran t torches and incense, fo r its m em ory
w ould keep alive the light, a glim m er o f the light o f the
heavens?

[ 10 ]

Was it a dream ? Was it a d ream , the daylight, the light that

stream ed in on him w hen the people m oved away from the
entrance to the cave, w hen a door opened up in the wall o f
the crow d standing roun d, and a new light ap p eared, incon­
testably divine, a forgotten light, fa r and near at once, the
light o f a sunlit day, the light o f life and clear sight?
A t first there was nothing but the blue vault o f the sky,
fa r o ff, lum inous in its own glow, sky-blue, fa r above his
head, a sky-blue sea, calm and serene, swelled by high tide;
then in the m ild blue o f the sky he thought he also saw a few
white clouds, not heavenly sheep, not a flock, a white, heavenly
flock out to graze, but wisps o f white wool floating with the
tide o f the blue vault, ju st enough to keep the hum an eye,

• 8 3 -
his eye, from doubting the blue o f the sky, ju st enough to
keep his soul from w andering.
F or it was incontestably daylight and it was incontestably
blue skylight o r the light o f his ascension. O r was this, too, a
dream , the flash that shut his eyes before he was quite out
o f the cave, rocking on the carriers’ pow erful shoulders as in
a boat, the light spattering him like water, his soul sinking
into the glittering blue wave as into holy w ater, neck deep,
the light en gu lfin g him in a warm bliss that em anated from
a distant m em ory o f his soul, a distant vision, the light lashing
at his eyes like an illum ination, the flam e o f angels’ wings,
while he pressed his eyes shut, pressed until they ached, not
from the darkness now or the visions but from the light?
A n d he felt the d ifferen ce, felt it behind his tightly shut eyes,
fo r in his conscience, som ew here in the m iddle o f his fo re ­
head, som ew here behind the frontal bone, in the center,
between his eyes, at the base o f the optic nerve and at the
heart o f sight itself, p urp le disks began to pulsate, purple
and crim son, and blue and yellow and green , and then red
again, and it was incontestably light and not an illusion, or
perhaps only an optical illusion, but it was light!

[ii]

U nless, alas, that, too, was a dream , a corporeal illusion, an

optical illusion, the illusion o f a som nam bulist who has
o verstep p ed the bounds and borders o f night and m oon, o f
d aybreak and m oonlight, and stepped into day and the light
o f the rising sun, the eternal divinity in eternal conflict with
the m oon goddess, and now— lo!— com ing to disperse the
illusory, the specious light o f the deposed goddess, its m uch

• 8 4 -
hated foe; but it was light! N ot the flickering, feeble light
that gnaws and chafes itself, lights and snuffs itself, pursues
and sm others itself, bu rn in g in its own flam e and sm oke, in
its own q uiver and flight, in its own coals and em bers; yes,
truly it was light!
N ot cold m oonlight but broad daylight, the light o f the
sun p iercin g his tightly shut lids, a crim son flam e infiltrating
the thick m at o f his lashes, the pores o f his skin, the light o f
day felt by each part o f the body as it em erged from the cold
d ark o f the cave, a w arm light and salutary, the life-giving
light o f day!
U nless, alas, it, too, was a dream .
T h e crim son rush ing into his blood, his heart pounding,
and the blood coursing through his body, w arm and jubilan t,
blood suddenly crim son and vigorous; the w arm cloak o f sun
he w rap p ed aroun d h im self as i f it w ere his own w arm skin,
a light gold m antle o f sun covering his body, his icy wet
h airshirt overlain with sum ptuous silk.
O r was this, too, a dream , the new, earthly scent p en e­
trating his nostrils lon g dulled by sleep and repose, the warm
scent o f earth, the scent o f grass, o f vegetation, the blessed
breath o f light and life which after the m usty air o f the cave
was as sweet as an apple?
C ould that, too, have been a dream ? T h e blessed libation
o f his spirit and body, the flash that kept him from open in g
his eyes, fo r it smote him in the foreh ead with such force
that the light turn ed to darkness, red and yellow, blue and
crim son and green darkness, and he had to keep his eyes
tightly shut, fo r the w arm red darkness behind his eyelids
m ade him feel as if he had p lun ged his head into boiling
sacrificial blood.

‘ 85 •
 [12]
Like a child in its cradle o r on its m other’s back, he rocked
on the shoulders o f his carriers— a child asleep on its m other’s
back, in a field, the sun beating down, eyes closed in blissful
lassitude, feelin g only the w arm th o f the sunlight on its skin,
heavy limbs, tightly shut lids.
Stun ned by the great light and the smells, on the b o rder
between consciousness and unconsciousness, he listened to
the prayers and chants o f the pilgrim s, the angelic chorus o f
ch ild ren ’s voices, and a caterw aul o f instrum ents, the cith-
aras’ w hine, the pipes’ lam ent, and let the resoun ding an ­
them s and the an gels’ trum pet blasts flow over him.
B ath ed in ever-increasing voices, voices o f the crow d,
lam entations and sobs, im precations and supplications, borne
on the wings o f ever-increasing smells, smells o f the crowd
and o f sweat p en etrating his nostrils at the m om ent the warm
red blood o f the sun started stream ing through the iceberg
o f his must- and m urk-em balm ed body, he suddenly dis­
cerned the od o r o f his carriers, the od or o f their shaven
heads and pungent arm pits, and then the long-forgotten
o d o r o f cattle as they were lifted, all three o f them, onto an
ox-draw n cart spread with a soft sheepskin.
His head p rop p ed on soft pillows, he lay in the cart as
in a boat and listened to the creak o f the wheels, slow and
lazy, m ingled with chanting and wailing. O nce, h a lf open in g
his tightly shut lids, letting in the daylight, which m ade a
p ain ful incision in the eyeball, like a steel blade, he looked
about him , left and right, and saw the faces o f his frien d
M alchus and o f Jo h n , m ute, expressionless faces, like his face
un doubtedly, saw them staring, like him, with half-open eyes
at the blue o f the firm am ent, the w onder o f creation.

• 86 •
 Was that, too, a dream ? T h e w arm motionlessness and
sudden calm , the child-like, anim al-like submission to the sun
and daylight, and the eyes turned tow ard the vault o f heaven,
heaven ’s blue vault, now cloudless, the oblivion-blue, regen ­
eration-blue, m iracle-blue vault o f heaven. Was that, too, a
dream ?
A n d he felt the jo y o f his body un burden ed o f a moist,
glutinous, viscid shell o f darkness, an infantile jo y o f the
flesh, o f entrails and bones, a jo y o f the bone m arrow and
spinal m arrow , a bestial, am phibian jo y , a reptilian jo y , when
the body, going into labor as it w ere, casts o ff the slough o f
darkness, the shell o f m ust and m oisture, the brittle skin o f
dam p and timeless obscurity that seeps through pores, dam p
and timeless, to the sensitive, bloody layer beneath the skin
and, like a serp en t’s venom , perm eates the body, its flesh and
bones and bone m arrow , follow ing the sam e paths as the cart
an d the w arm light o f the sun.
Was it a dream ? T h e sunbath w ringin g darkness from
the m arrow o f his bones, the fum es rising from his body as
it oozed the serpen t’s green venom through its pores, m aking
room fo r the light o f life, the life-giving sap that w ould m ake
his blood red again.
Was that, too, a dream , the m om ent w hen the heavy
rocks o f his sepulcher-cave opened befo re him and he was
dazzled by the light o f the heavens?

[ 13 ]
N ow that he was back in the d ark o f the cave, he could
recollect it all with pain ful clarity, fo r his icy body recalled
the w arm th, his blood recalled the light, his eye recalled the

• 8 7 -
blue o f the heavens, his ear recalled the singing and the
pipes.
A n d lo! all was quiet again, all was darkness, all was
torp or and num bness, absence o f m ovem ent and absence o f
light, yet he recalled the light, recalled it with a shiver o f
corp oreal nostalgia, the very m em ory o f it m ade him quiver,
as when in that dream or that reality the light o f the sun had
touched him , the sun had perched on his shoulders, em braced
his loins, w hen in that dream or that reality the sun had
sowed its seed in his viscera, had rippled through his blood,
w arm ed his bones.
A n d now— lo!— all was nothing but a sepulcher o f the
body and a d u ngeon o f the soul, a realm o f darkness, a palace
o f m old, green m old, in fusin g his heart and skin, bone
m arrow and spinal m arrow , and in vain did he explore, in
vain did he feel the moist and icy stone o f the cave with his
d ry, swollen fingers, in vain did he lift his eyelids, in vain did
he touch them with his fingers to assess w hether it was not
all a d ream , an illusion, the silence dotted with the drip p in g
o f invisible drop s from the invisible vaults o f the cave, the
d arkness riddled by a m uted m urm ur, in vain did he strain
to hear the singing and the whine o f the pipes, the singing
that he rem em bered so vividly, that his body rem em bered.
N othing. N othing but the em pty echo o f m em ory and
the resonant silence o f the cave; the sound o f silence, the
stillness o f time. T h e light o f darkness. T h e w ater o f dream .
W ater.

[ 14 ]
Jo ltin g along, the cart entered the town, and high above his
head rose the vaults o f the town gates, cleaving the blue o f

• 88 •
the heavens with their white stone arches, bridges spanning
invisible banks, stone arches within reach o f the hands lying
m otionless at the sides o f his num b, all but lifeless body.
H ere and there, w here the stone had cracked, a blade
o f grass sprouted from the arches, two or three blades o f
green grass, o r som e roots, white and split down the m iddle,
o r the rust-colored fron d o f a wild fern em ergin g from the
heart o f the stone. N o, it was no dream ! T h e sun streaked
with shadows beneath the arches o f the town gates, the fern ,
the grass, the moss within each o f his hands— no, surely it
was not a dream .
F o r one can dream water, fire, and sky; one can dream
m an and w om an, especially w om an; one can d ream dream s
in reality and dream s in a dream ; but surely this was not a
dream , the white chiseled stone, the vaults, the fortress o f a
town.

[ 15 ]
C reakin g and jo ltin g, the ox-draw n cart took them u n d er the
arches o f the town gates and through the shadows o f the
houses lining the streets, yet he barely saw the houses, fo r he
stared straight up, his eyes glassy and motionless with w onder
o r sleep, m erely sensing the stone presence o f the stone
houses, the lofty houses, on either side o f him , left and right,
w hen ever a shadow fell on his face and tired eyes, but he
also sensed the stone presence o f the tum bledow n huts, which
did not block the sun but w ere no less present, invisible but
solid and real, m ore real than the sky above his head, m ore
real than the creak o f the yoke and the voices o f the crowd
still accom panying them , m urm u rin g prayers and singing
psalms.

• 89 -
 [ 16]
“ O thou who art blessed, thou shalt stand b efo re the E m ­
p e ro r!” N o, it was no d ream . H e could still recall the voice,
p erhaps not the face, but the voice bursting with exaltation,
a voice cracking with fear or fervor. “ O thou who art blessed!”
A n d lying there m otionless, in the cart, he saw the red
beard and light blue eyes o f a young m an leaning over him,
from behind, in such a way that his face, upside down,
h o vered directly above him and blocked the sun. “ O thou
who art blessed!” Was the youn g man saying that to him,
D ionysius, o r w ere dream and reality still trifling with his
conscience?
S tarin g into the youn g m an’s eyes, he noted with mistrust
that they w ere observing and follow ing his own, timidly and
ap p reh en sively perhaps, but with a certain youthful insolence.
A n d looking up at him m utely, Dionysius saw his thin
lips and red beard begin to m ove, and he read the words
from those lips befo re his ears brought them to his conscious­
ness: “ O thou who art blessed!”
Was it not m ockery and scorn? Was it not the voice o f
his dream , the voice o f his illusions?
A n d Dionysius said, “ W ho art thou?”— his voice em ergin g
abruptly, scarcely audible. T h e insolence in those light blue
eyes now seem ed to have vanished, and the youn g m an
quickly turned away, his red-tipped eyelashes com ing down
o ver his eyes and his lips beginning to m ove again.
“ O thou who art blessed! I am thy slave and the slave o f
thy m aster!”
W ere they, too, a dream ? T h o se stuttering lips, that
q u iverin g beard?
“ Decius is not my m aster!” he uttered, expectin g a lion’s
ro ar in return . B u t lo! ju st as he closed his eyes the better to

* 90 *
hear the lion roar, the face o f the youn g m an with the red
beard vanished, leaving only the vast heavens spread out
above him.

[ 17 ]
A ll at once there was silence, broken only by the m onotonous
singing and keening o f the people: the creak o f the wheels
jo ltin g alon g the bum py, w inding road had ceased; the cart
had com e to a halt.
Was that, too, a dream ? T h e calm suddenly descending
upon his soul after a lon g m uddle o f voices and strange
happen in gs— was that, too, a dream ? T h e voices o f the crowd
had died dow n to nothing, and the creak o f the cart had
ceased, and the w hine and scrape o f the wheels. T h e sun ’s
rays, which until then had fallen at an angle on his face, w ere
gone, screened by an aw ning he could not see. His body
rested on a soft sheepskin, and the odor o f wool seeped into
his nostrils, and the odo r o f cypress and the odor o f the sun­
d ren ched day and the w arm , intoxicating odors o f the sea.
L u lled until then, like an infant in its cradle, by the whine
o f the wheels and the sway o f the cart, his num b body, his
light bones, his em pty innards, his quiet heart, his dry skin
all su rren d ered to the serenity o f easy breathing; he felt like
a child who had ju st been aw akened.
N o, it was no dream — that serenity, that radiance!

[ 18 ]
Even b efo re looking to the left and to the right, even b efore
w on derin g w hether it was all a dream , even b efo re appre-

• 91 •
hen d in g the m iraculous ascension o f his body in this redolent
bath o f a su m m er’s day, he recalled the sweet nam e o f Prisca
and im m ediately his body was flooded with bliss and the air
with the scent o f roses.
O h, jo y !
A n d the m ere recollection o f his body and heart d u rin g
that m om ent o f serenity, that wave o f exaltation, there, before
the palace gate, when the voices o f the crow d had died down
and the creak o f the cart had ceased, when Prisca’s sweet
nam e was en graved on his soul and exu d ed a rose-like
arom a— now, once m ore, in the darkness o f the cave, the
tom b o f eternity, it awoke in him a vague and distant elation,
grazin g him with its breath, and his body was flooded with
light and heat from afa r; but then all return ed to silence o f
the spirit and the darkness o f time.

119 ]
H e lay in the darkness o f the cave, vainly straining his eyes,
vainly calling to his friend M alchus, vainly calling to Jo h n ,
the saintly sh ep h erd , vainly calling to the green-eyed dog
Q itm ir, vainly calling to the L ord his G od : the darkness was
as thick as tar, the silence— the silence o f the tomb o f eternity.
A ll he could hear was the d rip p in g o f w ater from invisible
vaults, the grin d in g o f eternity in the clepsydra o f time.
O h, who can divide d ream from reality, day from night,
night from dawn, m em ory from illusion?
W ho can draw a sharp line between sleep and death?
W ho, O L o rd , can draw a sharp dividin g line between
present, past, and future?

•92 •
 W ho, O L o rd , can separate the jo y o f love from the
sadness o f recollection?
H ap p y are they who hope, O L o rd , fo r their hopes shall
be fulfilled.
H ap p y are they who know what is day and what is night,
O L o rd , fo r they shall revel in the day and revel in the night
and the repose thereof.
H ap p y are they fo r whom the past has been, the present
is, and the fu tu re will be, O L o rd , fo r their lives shall flow
like w ater.
H ap p y are they who dream by night and recall their
dream s by day, O L o rd , fo r they shall rejoice.
H ap p y are they who know by day w here they have been
by night, O L o rd , fo r theirs is the day and theirs is the night.
H ap py are they who recall not their nocturnal w an der­
ings, O L o rd , fo r the light o f day shall be unto them.

[20]

T h e y lay on their backs in a d ark cave on M ount Celius, with

their hands crossed in p rayer like corpses, all three o f them ,
Dionysius and his frien d M alchus and, a short distance away,
Jo h n , the saintly shepherd, and his dog, Q itm ir.
T h e y slept the sleep o f the dead.
Had you come upon them in that state, you would surely have
turned and taken flight; you would have been overcome with fear.

* 93 *
The Mirror of the Unknown
T h i s story does not begin abruptly, in medias res, but g ra d ­
ually, as w hen night falls in the woods. T h e y are dense oak
w oods, so dense that a ray o f the setting sun breaks through
the treetops only here and there, fo r a m om ent, at the whim
o f a fluttering leaf, then drops to the groun d like a spot o f
blood and disappears im m ediately. T h e girl does not notice
it any m ore than she notices the day fadin g, the darkness
com ing on. She is absorbed in som ething else: she is follow ­
ing the vertiginous leap o f a squirrel whose lon g tail glides
along a tree trunk, swiftly, giving the im pression o f two ani­
mals chasing each other, identical in m ovem ent and speed
yet differen t— the first, the real squirrel, is sleek and reddish-
brow n; the second, follow ing close behind, has longer, lighter-
colored fu r. T h e y are not (thinks the girl, m ore o r less), they
are not twins, they are sisters; they have the sam e fath er and
the sam e m other. Ju s t as the three o f them — H anna, M irjam ,
and B e rta (that is, h erself)— are three sisters with the sam e
fath er and the sam e m other and look like one another yet
are d ifferen t. H an na and M irjam , fo r exam ple, have black
hair, pitch-black, while she, B erta, has red hair, bright red,
and braid ed in such a way that it looks a litde like a squ irrel’s

* 97 •
tail. Such are the girl’s thoughts as she w ades through the
m oist leaves and even in g falls on the woods. T h en , as in a
dream , she com es upon several long-stem m ed m ushroom s, a
whole patch o f long-stem m ed m ushroom s, and she knows
fo r certain, though no one has ever told her, that they are
poisonous: it’s obvious from their nasty appearance. (T he
girl is not m istaken, the girl is right: they are poisonous
m ushroom s, lihyphallus impudicus, which she does not, should
not know.) She tram ples them with her patent-leather shoes,
pulverizin g them in a fit o f anger. A n d her shoes, look at
them , they are n ’t even m uddy: she walks through the leaves
as on a carpet; all you can see is a thin film over the shiny
leather su rface, the film that form s on an apple or a m irror
when you breathe on it. Which rem inds her o f the m irror
her fath er bought her from a G ypsy at the Szeged fair, and
she takes it out o f her pocket. (T he G ypsy, a youn g m an who
was lam e in one leg and had a m ustache and a mouth full o f
gold teeth, was selling cop p er kettles. It was the only m irror
he had. H e had begged the gentlem an to buy it, “ out o f
kin dn ess.” H e would give it to him cheap: he h adn ’t sold
an yth ing the whole day and his baby was ill, dyin g . . . “ G ypsy
business.” )
T h e girl brings the m irror up to her face, but fo r a
m om ent she does not see anything. Ju s t fo r a moment.

T h e country road that leads westward all the way to

M ako (and then, turn in g slightly to the northeast, as far as
Budapest) is easily passable at this time o f year: the floods
have yet to begin, the M aros has yet to overflow its banks.
T h e road begins on the outskirts o f A rad . T h e paved section
com es to an abrupt end at the brick factory, and the dirt
road is dusty in sum m er and full o f puddles and m ud, if not

* 98 •
com pletely flooded, in autum n. B u t a sim ple rain fall can turn
the dust into a thick yellow m ud that sticks to wheels and
spokes, and horse hooves sink deep into the dough y clay.
E ven light gigs and stewards’ black coaches leave deep tracks
in the m ud, not to m ention heavy, handm ade carriages pulled
by two m assive, pon derous d ray horses.
O n the open fron t seat sits a gentlem an in his forties, a
m an with large black eyes and heavy, d roo pin g eyelids and
a slightly thread bare, stiff-brim m ed hat on his head. H e holds
the reins loosely, like an experien ced coachm an, both straps
in one large, kid-gloved hand. In the other hand he clutches
a w hip, brand-new , elegant, with a copper-faced bam boo
handle an d a long, thin, leather plait which, on the fa r side
o f a small red pom pom , turns into a good, solid lash with a
viper-like hiss.
T h e w hip’s ow ner had cracked it only once, on his way
out o f A ra d , at the spot w here the paved road turns to dirt.
O r, to be m ore exact, twice: the first time in fron t o f the
shop, into the void, a trial run , like a custom er trying out a
hun tin g rifle, nestling it on his shoulder, inclining his head,
closing his left eye, aim ing at the cuckoo that has ju st ju m p ed
out o f the clock, crying “ B an g-ban g,” rem oving it from his
shoulder, op en in g it, peerin g down the barrels, exam ining
the carved butt (a d eer that has com e to a sudden standstill),
w eigh ing it in his hands, while the cuckoo d isappears behind
double doors painted with red roses and green leaves, dis­
ap p ears as i f blasted to pieces by the buckshot bursting from
the two barrels alm ost sim ultaneously (bang-bang), because
the h u n ter has hit it as it was about to take shelter behind its
ram bler-rose doors, having barely had time to chirp three
times— the hands showed three on the dot, the shop o f the
A ra d m erchant R osen berg had only ju st opened, and ou r

• 99 *
custom er, o r potential custom er, was the first to enter the
shop this aftern oon .
So he laid dow n the gun (rather reluctantly, we feel) and
picked up a w hip standing in a corn er together with five or
six o f its kind, all m ade o f bam boo and identical in length
and price, squeezed the handle with both his pow erful hands
and gave it a twist. T h e dry bam boo creaked, but gave nicely.
T h e n he lashed it against his boot legs once or twice, but
even that was not en ough, so he went out in front o f the
shop, into the street, and sw ung the whip over his head as
veteran cow herders do. T h e whip hissed like a viper— at
which point its fortunate ow ner abruptly switched direction
and gave the handle the kind o f tug a fisherm an gives a
bam boo rod when a large sturgeon or perch takes the bait
o r that a d riv er gives the reins when faced with sudden
d an g er, w hen out o f the woods into the path o f his cart
ju m p s a bear or two highw aym en, one grabbin g the horse by
the halter, the other sticking a shotgun in the d river’s chest
and snatching the reins out o f his hands— and a shot, as
p ow erful as a rifle shot or nearly so, ran g out along the em pty
street, which reverberated with the blast.
T h e second and last time the satisfied custom er used his
w hip was when he left the paved stretch outside A rad and
d rove into the rutted dirt. H ere it had its first true trial, not
into the void. H e w aved it once and only once above the
heads o f his horses (W aldem ar and Christina by name) and
cracked it in the air ju st above their ears. T h e horses je rk e d
out o f their lethargy and, heavy and lum bering though they
w ere, raced through the m ud, to the great jo y o f the two
girls in the back seat o f the carriage, who, holding on to each
o th er and squealing as if frighten ed , enjoyed it all greatly,
the w hole wild ride.

1 oo •
 T h e gentlem an is w earing (and m ay the spanking-new
w hip not cause us to lose sight o f it) a suit o f English tweed,
with an overcoat, also tweed, but d ifferin g in pattern. H e
gives the im pression, an im pression that m ay be false, o f
bein g quite satisfied, despite obvious fatigue, and not ju st
because o f the whip he has purchased (which is only a trifle)
but also, doubtless, because o f the mission he has successfully
com pleted. F o r (kind sir) it is no easy task to enroll on e’s
daugh ters in a school fo r children from what people re fe r to
as “ the best fam ilies.” Y es, he would n ever have succeeded
without certain connections, plus a tidy little sum , a small
gift, actually . . . But, thank Jeh o v ah , the mission has been
accom plished. H an na and M irjam — the older fourteen , the
yo u n g er thirteen— w ould live with a wom an in A ra d by the
nam e o f G oldberg, a w om an so strict and m oral that she had
n ever m arried, though, to tell the truth, she was neither so
p oor nor, shall we say, so unattractive as to rule out the
possibility o f som e honest Je w m aking her happy.
Such are the thoughts most likely occupying M r. B re n n er
(for that is his nam e) as he jolts along on the seat o f his
im itation tilbury each time the wheels hit a m ound o f dirt.
Szeged is still a long way off, two or three hours at least, but
he is in no h u rry. H e has not used the whip again even once
or pulled in the reins. T h e horses know the way, having often
draw n the tilbury (let us agree to call it thus) from A ra d to
Szeged and back: M r. B re n n e r takes it on business at least
once a m onth to A ra d (and to M ako, T em esvar, Kecskem et,
Szabadka, U jvidek, Szolnok, and even Budapest). So he
abandons the tilbury to his horses’ instincts and h im self to
his thoughts. W hat a C entral E u rop ean Jew ish m erchant
thinks about on the day o f his death we can only guess. Ju s t
as we can have only the vaguest idea o f what the daughters
(thirteen and fourteen) o f a Central E urop ean Jew ish m er­
chant think o r dream o f on the day they have been enrolled
in a secondary school and had their first encounter with the
great outside w orld. T h e w orld to come.
T h a t they did not care fo r the G old berg w om an, a distant
relative on their m other’s side, was beyond any doubt. Not
m erely because her u p p er lip was covered with down (H anna
had w hispered “ A m ustache!” into her sister’s ear) but also
because she lost no time in show ing how strict she was.
M indlessly strict, too. A t lunch that day sh e’d m ade them
“ m op u p ” the lentils left on their plates with a piece o f bread!
A n d the constant advice. Y o u ’d think they w ere still children.
Do this, d o n ’t do that. T h is is hoch, that is not. So m uch fo r
their m other’s stories about what a fine wom an M rs. G oldberg
or, to be precise, Miss G old berg was! I f she was such a “ fine
w om an” (H anna w hispered into her sister’s ear), why hadn ’t
she m arried , why h ad n ’t she found h e rse lf a husband to
“ m op u p ” the solet on his plate? M irjam assented, silently, by
shutting and im m ediately open in g her eyes: it was all too
true— Miss G old b erg was a boring old m aid! Really! A s fo r
the school . . . Well, the teacher was pretty, young, and nice
en ou gh , and she was w earing a hat you ’d never see in
Szeged— with a ribbon and a feather— and a dress she could
only have o rd ered from B udapest, if not V ien n a; as fo r the
school itself, how ever, they had to adm it they w ere som ewhat
disappointed. T ru e , the outside was ju st as it should be: large,
yellow, newly roo fed , and su rroun ded on all sides by a garden ,
but inside . . . ! T h e desks (they had been shown their own
classroom ), the desks w ere ju st like the ones at the Szeged
school, an inch o r two higher, perhaps, hard to tell, but the
sam e d ark color, d ark green , and ju st as scuffed and stained
with spots and scraw lings— nam es, doodles, form ulas— that

10 2*
could not be erased. T h e blackboard was the sam e too, m ore
black than d ark green (as it had been originally), and full o f
scratches; the red lines that had once form ed squares w ere
h ardly visible and then only at the edges. T h e teacher’s desk
was protected by a sheet o f ordin ary blue w rap p in g p ap er
tacked to the top. T h e high windows w ere covered with bars,
like m onastery windows in novels. A n d this was the G irls’
H igh School!
G on e the squeals o f delight when they had set o ff that
very m orn in g b efo re dawn, the jo y that fills a child’s heart at
m om ents that m ark the great turn in g points in life. A ll that
rem ains is a secret sorrow , which each keeps to herself. Each
is asham ed to confess to the other that she is disappointed,
brutally, irrep arably, after days and days o f jo y and exh ila­
ration and after that m orning, when they had felt their hearts
full to bu rsting with excitem ent: the big day had arrived!
Sitting there u n d er the hood, w rapped in a w arm blanket,
they m ake believe they are drow sing, but each is absorbed in
h er own thoughts. T h e oak branches rustle in the wind. Now
and then they open their eyes, secretly, and gaze up past
their fath er’s shoulders at the arch o f leaves through which
they are passing as throu gh a tunnel. From time to time the
w ind d rop s a le a f on their leather seat. T h e le a f alights with
a b arely perceptible scratch, like a mouse.
W hat could they tell their m other? Surely they are
thinking o f that as well. H ow to conceal their sudden drop
in spirits? H ow to keep from disappointing her, their m other,
w ho had seen them o ff that m orn in g with tears in h er eyes
as if sending them o ff to their nuptial bed or, heaven forbid,
to death . . . N o, no! T h e y couldn ’t tell their m other that
they had been disappointed by the blackboard, that they had
been disappointed by the desks. It would be childish, it would

• 103 •
hu rt her. B u t Miss G oldberg, that was another story! W ould
they have to go throu gh a whole year o f school “ m op p ing”
their plates clean with their bread? W hat was the point o f it?
G ran ted , the room suited them to a T , the bed was larger,
the sheets starched, the eiderdow n soft and w arm , and the
window faced a flow er garden with a lilac bush— everything
was as nice as could be, but couldn’t their dear, kind m other
write her a letter and ask her nicely, politely, to stop teaching
them “ m an n ers” ? G ranted, there was a vase full o f freshly
cut irises on the table in their room , the curtains w ere as stiff
as card board , as white as snow, everythin g was perfect, the
bathroom was done in pink earthenw are tile and the towels
m on ogram m ed H for H anna and M fo r M irjam , but . . . No,
they cou ld n ’t tell M other, because after everythin g they had
been throu gh, after six m onths o f long talks, at night, before
bed, about going to A rad , to the school, it w ould be sacrile­
gious and childish to show how insensitive and u n grateful
they w ere.
It is still light out, though the sun has begun to set. Only
M r. B re n n e r can see it from his throne o f a seat, and he may
be rem in ded o f a line o f poetry— M r. B re n n e r is a poetry
lover, trade has not com pletely robbed him o f a sense o f
beauty— a line o f poetry about the setting sun, which falls
beneath the horizon like the blood-bathed head o f a m onarch
rollin g o ff the block.
Lost in thought, M r. B re n n e r takes a cigar out o f his
inside pocket.

A t that m om ent, at that very m om ent, the girl in the

woods takes the small round m irror in the m other-of-pearl
fram e out o f her pocket and brings it up to her face. First
she sees her freckled nose, then her eyes and red, squirrel-

•104*
tail hair. A n d then her face disappears, slowly, gradually—
first the freckles on h er nose, then the nose itself, then the
eyes. H e r breath spreads across the m irror like a thin film
across a green apple. B u t she continues to hold the m irror
in fron t o f h er face, because now she sees the woods and the
sw aying oak leaves. A bird flies up out o f a bush, suddenly
but noiselessly; a tiny butterfly, the color o f rust and faded
leaves, vanishes against the trunk o f an oak; a d eer comes to
a sudden standstill, as if stunned, only to dart o ff again an
instant later; a dead branch falls from a tree; a sp id er’s web
with a d ro p o f dew refractin g a blood-red sunbeam begins
to quiver. A pinecone has fallen silently, a branch snapped
without a sound, as i f m ade o f ashes.
T h e girl looks into the m irror, brin gin g it all the way up
to h er eyes as i f she w ere nearsighted (like H anna, who wears
glasses). T h e n she sees ju st behind her or, rather, behind the
m irro r— because there is nothing behind her, no road— the
dusty road and a tilbury rid in g past. H er fath er is sitting in
the fro n t seat. H e has ju st taken a cigar from his pocket and,
laying his w hip in his lap, brings a lit match up to it. N ow he
tosses away the m atch, which describes a high arc b efore
fallin g to the groun d . A ll at once he gives the reins a tug.
T h e re is terro r in his eyes . . . T w o m en have leaped into the
tilbury.
T h e girl scream s out in h er sleep, then sits up in bed,
clenching in h er sweaty hand the little m other-of-pearl m irror,
which she has been gu ard in g u n d er the pillow. M rs. B ren n er,
who has let the child sleep in the room with h er that night
(usually the three girls sleep in the nursery next door), awakes
with a start and, still h a lf asleep, gropes fo r a candle. T h e
girl is w ailing like som eone gone m ad. It is the cry o f an
anim al, inhum an, a cry that m akes the blood run cold.

105 •
O vertu rn in g the candlestick, Mrs. B re n n er rushes to the child
and clasps h er to her breast, but she cannot say a w ord, her
voice refu ses to function, she does not know what is h ap p en ­
ing: has som eone tried to strangle the girl o r slit her throat?
T h e n from the w ailing and disjointed cries she m akes out
som ething indistinct and horrible; she hears the nam es o f
her d au gh ters and a terrifyin g “ No! No! N o-o-o!”
A t last she finds the candlestick near the bedside table
and, with hands that scarcely obey her, lights a match. T h e
girl is still wailing, wild-eyed, staring into the m irror she
clutches in her hand. Mrs. B re n n er tries to take it from her,
but the girl holds on to it with all her m ight, with the grip o f
rigo r m ortis. Mrs. B re n n e r sits down on the bed, holding the
flickering candle above her head. In the dim light o f the
flam e she sees— fo r a m om ent, only for a m om ent— the wild
eyes o f her youngest d augh ter (if they are not her own wild
eyes). T h e n she rushes over to the w ardrobe. A tinkle o f
crystal rings out. Then the noise o f broken glass.
M rs. B re n n e r goes back to the bed, holding a tiny bottle.
V in egar, eau de C ologne, or sm elling salts. T h e girl is sitting
up, h er body racked with convulsions, her eyes staring into
the void. N ext to her, on the floor, lies the broken m irror.
T h e girl looks up at her m other as if seeing her for the first
time in her life.
“ T h e y are all d ea d ,” she says in a voice almost not her
own.

M arton B en ed ek, the local m ayor, lights a candle on his

bedside table and glances at the clock: it is after eleven. T h e
d og in the cou rtyard is barkin g furiou sly; he can hear it
straining at the chain, and the chain gliding along a taut wire.
Som eon e is knocking at the door, banging his fists, hard. Mr.

• 1 06 •
B en ed ek slips into his dressing gown and goes out without
taking o ff his pom pom ed nightcap, which has slipped down
o ver one ear. H old in g u p the candle at the door, he recognizes
M rs. B re n n e r clutching h er youngest d augh ter in her arm s.
T h e child is sh u d d erin g with suppressed sobs. W hen M rs.
B re n n e r cannot m anage to get out a w ord, the m ayor
reluctantly shows h er into the entrance hall.
T h e d og continues to wail, produ cing an aw ful anim al
plaint closer to an old m an ’s w eeping than to the m ew ling o f
a child. M rs. B re n n er— deathly pale and still clasping the
child, whose anim al-like w him per proceeds unabated— does
h er best, dazed as she is, to explain to the m ayor the reason
fo r h er visit.
“ Y o u can see fo r y o u rse lf the state she’s in ,” she says all
but inaudibly.
“ Y es, I can,” says the m ayor, “ but I ’m sorry, I d on ’t quite
u n d erstan d .”
A t that point the child turns and looks at him in a way
he has n ever seen before.
“ T h e y are all d ead ,” says the girl, and starts sobbing
again, h er body twitching with convulsions.
M r. B en ed ek glances over at the child’s m other
questioningly.
“ She says she saw them in the m irror. T h e y ’ve all been
killed, she says. Y o u can see fo r y o u rse lf the state she’s in .”
“ T h e m irro r?” the m ayor asks.
A lon g explanation follows. M r. B ened ek, a m an o f great
experien ce (fifteen years’ worth, i f not twenty), does not
believe in m iracles; he puts his trust in science. T h e girl, he
thinks to him self, has had an attack o f hysterics or epilepsy
(but he does not say so). A ll he says is that she should be
taken to the doctor first thing in the m orning; she m ay be

•107*
constipated. A n d now— it’s getting close to m idnight— they’d
best go hom e; everythin g will be all right. T h e child has had
a little cauchemar (he uses the French w ord, ap parently to
m ake his hypothesis sound m ore convincing, like a medical
diagnosis pron ou nced in Latin); what she needs is some
Epsom salts (take them , please, keep the whole bottle), but
surely, M rs. B re n n er, you d o n ’t expect me to go traipsing
throu gh the woods with my m en to confirm the nightm ares
o f a child, a child not even seriously ill but m erely feverish.
Has she ever had m um ps? She has? W hat about w hooping
cough? T h e re , you see? M aybe it’s w hooping cough. T h e first
sym ptom . Agitation, overstim ulation o f the organism . E x ­
haustion. A n d when the body suffers, the s o u l. . . W hereupon
M r. B en ed ek launched into his theory o f the interconnection
betw een spiritual and corporal phenom ena, which theory he
had doubtless heard at cards from Dr. Weiss. Unless he had
read it in a book som ew here. O r in the Aradi Naplo. (D on’t
w orry, everythin g will be ju st fine.)

F or the end o f o u r story we must re fe r to the 18 5 8 run

o f the sam e Aradi N aplo, which Mr. B ened ek doubtless read
daily, as did M r. B re n n e r fo r that m atter, to keep up with
local m arriage announcem ents, deaths, forest fires, and
crim es, as well as with the price o f tim ber, leather, and grain.
(Besides official news, the p ap er carried pastoral letters,
educational articles on agriculture, legal advice, and reports
on horse races in B u d ap est, uprisings in G reece, and palace
coups in Serbia.) In an issue dating from early in the reign
o f Fran z J o s e f we find the testim ony o f M ayor B enedek
him self, sw orn testim ony all the m ore valuable in that it
com es from a m an who, by his own account, was free o f
superstition and tended tow ard “ positivism .”

1 08 •
 “ It was a terrible sight” (Mr. B en ed ek ’s w ords as quoted
by the Aradi Naplo). “ O ut o f consideration fo r the read er we
shall refrain from describing the pitiable state in which the
victims w ere foun d. M r. B re n n er had been literally decapitated
with a kn ife o r ax, while his daughters . . .” T h e re follows a
veiled allusion to the fact that the girls had also been slain,
and only after the two m en had had their way with them.
Locatin g the perpetrators o f the loathsom e crim e (if we
m ay sum m arize the Aradi Naplo account) was not difficult,
because the girl had had a clear look at them in the m irror.
T h e first was a twenty-eight-year-old shop assistant by the
nam e o f Fuchs, the second an unem ployed laborer nam ed
M eszaros. B oth had w orked the previous year fo r M r. B re n ­
ner. T h e y w ere fou n d in Fuchs’s shop with a bundle o f blood­
stained banknotes. “ C on fron ted with the evidence, they
adm itted their guilt. T h e y ad ded that they recognized the
hand o f G od in the speedy discovery o f the crim e and asked
fo r a priest to hear their confession.”
O ther E u ro p ean new spapers rep orted the unusual inci­
dent to their read ers, sometimes expressin g an unhealthy
skepticism , the result o f the ever-increasing inroads m ade by
positivism in p rogressive bourgeois circles. Spiritualist pub­
lications— and their influence was considerable— cited it as a
sure sign o f hum an m agnetic powers. A sim ilar point was
m ade by the celebrated K ard ec, an undisputed authority on
the subject and a m an known to have allied him self with the
pow ers o f darkness.

109 •
The Story of the Master

and the Disciple

W h a t follows took place at the end o f the last century in
P ragu e, “ city o f m ysteries.” T h e event— if it can be called
such— has been described, with negligible variations and
m odifications, by m any authors, and I shall keep to the
version p rovid ed by Chaim Fran kel— the advantage o f his
n arrative resid in g in the fact that it recapitulates the views o f
other disciples who have written about the M aster. Once we
have set aside its heavy-handed disquisitions on faith, m oral­
ity, H asidism , disquisitions interspersed with freq u en t quo­
tations from the T a lm u d and Fran kel’s own quibblings, the
story com es dow n to this:
T h e learn ed B en H aas (born O skar Leib) began to write
poetry, in H ebrew , at the age o f fourteen. In about 18 9 0 he
retu rn ed fro m a pilgrim age to the H oly L an d and settled in
P ragu e, w here he gath ered a gro u p o f like-m inded scholars
aro u n d the jo u rn a l Ha-Yom, which was rep rod u ced by hand
in as m any copies as there w ere disciples. B en H aas taught
m orals and literature. H is teachings, set forth in num erous
p ap ers and articles and published in part only recently (thanks
to the sam e Chaim Frankel), rest on a m oral dilem m a that
goes back to Plato and m ay be sum m arized thus: art and

113*
m orality are based on two divergen t prem ises and as such
are incom patible. O ne m ight even claim, with Frankel, that
all B en H aas’s oeuvre, poetic as well as philosophical, re p re ­
sents an attem pt to overcom e this contradiction. H e attempts
to soften K ie rk e g a a rd ’s “ either/or,” even though the exam ples
he takes from the history o f ideas— from that o f literature,
p rim arily— show the dilem m a to be virtually insurm ountable.
“ A rt is the w ork o f vanity, m orality the absence o f vanity,”
he repeats at several points, as he interprets the lives o f great
m en from K in g David to Ju d a h ha-Levi and Solom on Ibn
G abirol. T h e circle headed by Ben Haas (some say it had five
m em bers, others seven) set itself the goal o f refu tin g the
dilem m a by w ord and deed; that is, o f subm itting “ in the
very heart o f poetic tem ptation” to a rigorous code o f m orals
which, as Fran kel points out, was based on the Ju d aeo -
C hristian tradition, talm udic postulates, Kant, Spinoza, and
K ierk eg aard , yet was not devoid o f certain “ anarchistic ele­
m ents.” I f we have understood Frankel correctly, how ever,
the “ rigorous m oral im perative” (as Ben Haas called it) did
not exclu d e certain hedonistic principles from its code: con­
trary to all expectation, vodka, Indian hem p, and the plea­
sures o f the flesh occupied the same rank as reading, travel,
and p ilgrim ages. All Frankel sees here— and I feel he comes
close to the truth— is the low point in the intersection o f art
and m orality, w here these forces clash in their most elem ental
form , “ beyond good and evil” : the true m oral dilem m a begins
and ends with the issue o f vanity; all else lies beyond the
m oral sphere. T h e parallels Frankel draws with Buddhist
doctrine and bonze practice— in which the pleasures o f the
flesh raise no b a rrier to the absolute known as the tao— would
seem to be a consequence m ore o f private speculation on the
part o f B en H aas than o f the direct influence o f O riental

1 1 4*
wisdom . T h e fact that B en Haas was seen in a disreputable
district o f P ragu e at the age o f thirty (by which time he had
established his m oral code once and fo r all) cannot, therefore,
be considered a scandalous contradiction o f the principles set
forth in his Summer and the Desert. “ A rt is know ledge, and
know ledge is asexu al,” Frankel cites as one o f H aas’s basic
assum ptions. “ A sexu al, that is, am oral.” In other w ords, the
learn ed B e n H aas, who was both poet and m oralist, who
com bined two contradictory vocations, tried to reconcile the
asexual know ledge o f art, so precious to all experience, with
his ethical principles, which he refused to dilute: “ I f one
takes a person at his w ord, though it be the Sacred W ord,
one risks a m oral fall graver yet than if one breaks a
com m andm ent prescribed by the W ord.” T h is b rie f quotation
fro m the early H aas contains the sim plest explanation o f one
o f the basic ideas that years later would spawn the heavy,
convoluted, barely com prehensible philosophical doctrine he
exp o u n d ed in cabalistic ja rg o n w eighed dow n with neologism s
and a n um ber o f concepts whose m eaning escapes us. Y et we
cannot quite agree with Fran kel when he states that the
obscurity o f B en H aas’s later teachings is m erely the conse­
quence o f doubt, the fru it o f “ m aturity.” (T h ere are m any
obstacles in the way o f issuing a critical edition o f B en H aas’s
com plete w orks, the first being the presence o f certain rabbis
and m oralists on the com m ittee charged with their study and
publication.)
A lth ou gh the event that interests us here and that we
m ean to relate in b rie f has no direct connection with B en
H aas’s philosophical doctrine, it derives, as insignificant as it
m ay seem , from the nature o f his teachings and calls into
question an entire com plex system o f values. T h is is a sort o f
m oral, i f you will.

ii5*
 * * *
In the year 18 9 2, and in that disreputable district o f
P ragu e, Ben H aas, who was by then known as the M aster,
m et a you n g m an who asked to have a talk with him. T h e
M aster, torn between the ethical and the poetic principle (the
fo rm e r telling him to refuse, the second to consent), sat down
with him in a squalid tavern and ord ered two glasses o f
Passover vodka, ap p aren tly part o f the ritual. Y esh u a Krochal,
fo r such was the youn g m an’s nam e, confided to the M aster
that he had begun to frequen t the district since he had picked
up one o f his writings and read about experien ce being
“ asexual, that is, am o ral,” but that he had been unable to
find the spiritual equilibrium preached in Summer and the
Desert. T h e M aster was overcom e with anguish and rem orse
when he realized that his teachings, like every doctrine based
on m orality, w ere liable in im m ature hands to cause as much
harm as good. (For, as Plato rem arks, a m aster chooses his
disciple, but a book does not choose its reader.) C arried away
by an in fern al im pulse and possibly by the vodka as well (if
not m erely unconsciously wishing to parod y Pygm alion, as
Fran kel w ould have it), Ben Haas decided to turn an insig­
nificant being— the disciple had not answ ered a single o f the
M aster’s veiled questions— into a Hasid (in the sense o f one
who is “ initiated,” “ learn ed ,” “ m eek” ). T h e youn g m an con­
fessed that Summer and the Desert had given him the m oral
strength to freq uen t brothels, since he looked upon the
process prim arily as an “ act o f exp erien ce,” though he was
aw are o f the fact that the “ act o f exp erien ce” was o f no value
unless it served a creative function. B en Haas abruptly set
his vodka glass dow n on the table when he heard the title o f
the book Y esh u a K rochal was writing: The Road to Canaan.
D u rin g the course o f the evening, however, the m an called

1 16 •
 the M aster cam e to see that his future disciple had all the
traits which, had he listened to the voice o f reason, w ould
have dissuaded him from taking him u n d er his wing, for
stupidity com bined with am bition is m ore dangerous than
insanity. H e nonetheless arran ged fo r them to meet in three
m onths’ time at the sam e tavern and left the youn g m an with
a list o f twenty-seven books devoted to the m iracle at Canaan
and salvation.
A t the end o f N ovem ber, Y esh u a K rochal ap p eared at
the appointed place with his Road to Canaan, a m anuscript o f
ap p roxim ately one hu n d red and twenty pages, over which
the M aster cast a fleeting, all-encompassing glance, noted the
fine penm anship, and picked out several spelling errors at
random . H e then scheduled another m eeting, again in three
m onths’ time and at the tavern, and sent Y esh u a away with
a list o f books that included a handbook o f H ebrew o r­
thography.
On the occasion o f their third encounter, in Feb ruary
18 9 3 , the M aster leafed through the m anuscript with his
divining-rod fingers and saw, to his horror, that his suspicions
had been well fou n d ed : the spelling e rro r on page 72 had
been corrected, but the m anuscript was otherw ise intact.
D riven by a sudden feeling o f contrition and, possibly,
sym pathy (because he realized or at least sensed that by his
exam p le he had tran sform ed an un fortun ate lay person into
a m ore un fortun ate H asid and that there was no w ay out, no
turn in g back), the M aster picked up the m anuscript and went
o ff with it. H e spent all that night studying The Road to Canaan,
whose futility and sterility rem inded him o f his own erro r:
had he, on that night nine m onths before, follow ed his ethical
principle instead o f his poetic one (though who can tell w here
the exact b o rd er between them lies!), he would not have had
E
117*
on his conscience a futile hum an existence he was conse­
quently forced by m oral law to save from the abyss on whose
edge it now stood; and had that once healthy young man not
been infected by his teachings, no m atter how m isinterpreted
or m isunderstood, he w ould not have sat up at night over an
absurd text written in a large, carefu l hand, a text in form ed
by a vain desire to ju stify the absurdity o f existence— or the
prem onition o f its absurdity— by a creative act o f any sort.
In a flash o f illum ination, Ben Haas app reh en d ed that it was
his own vanity that had led him to this pass, his vanity, his
poetic eccentricity, and his passion fo r polem ics; that is, a
desire to prove to his disciples that the story o f Pygm alion
lacked the m oral force o f myth and was m erely a com m on,
scandalous anecdote that had been endow ed with the illusion
o f myth.
So as not to reject The Road to Canaan out o f hand and
abandon the un fortun ate Yeshu a K rochal in a dangerou s
im passe at the age o f thirty-three (Frankel is correct when
he discerns in the cryptograp hy the influence o f cabalistic
sym bolism on Ben Haas), the man called the M aster purged
the m anuscript o f everythin g in the im age o f its author, in
the im age o f his vanity, the only trait holding his frail being
together; he excised the ephem eral reflections, as in a stagnant
pool, o f Y esh u a K roch al’s pockm arked face, the blue circles
u n d er his eyes, his lethargic body; with a nimble pen he rid
the m anuscript o f m alicious allusions to contem porary events
and o f biblical digressions, such as the one about L o t’s wife,
in whom he recognized a redh eaded G erm an woman from
the K oron a T a v e rn . (T h e only m ysterious links between the
red h ead ed G erm an wom an and L o t’s w ife w ere the large
white sweat stains circling her arm pits and the fact that
Y esh u a K rochal had, by his own testim ony, “ sodom ized” her.)
O f the h u n dred and twenty pages in The Road to Canaan,

1 18 •
B en H aas left barely a third, brin gin g together those parts
in which a hint o f m ythic allegory seem ed to lurk, a hint that
m ight be turn ed into the A p p earan ce o f Substance. T h e next
day, bleary-eyed and ill-tem pered, he set o ff fo r the K oron a
with the m anuscript o f The Road to Canaan in the pocket o f
his caftan. H e fou n d Y esh u a K rochal m uch afflicted. T h e
you n g m an told him o f his doubts: he had com e to realize
the futility and the inevitability o f his choice. I f the M aster felt
that The Road to Canaan would fail to attain the grace o f
ap p rop riate form , he could do nothing but withdraw. H e
pron ou nced the w ord in a highly am biguous m anner, in such
a way as to give it a differen t, m ore pernicious m eaning from
the one it had in Summer and the Desert (“ I f you are unable to
act at the perilous conjunction o f contradictory forces, the
m oral and the poetic, then withdraw. W ater the cabbages in
yo u r gard en , and grow roses only in the cem etery. For roses
are fatal to the soul” ). T h e m an called the M aster then took
the m uch-d efaced m anuscript from the inside pocket o f his
silk caftan and laid it in fron t o f the youn g man.
“ I f I understan d correctly,” said Y eshu a, crushed, “ there
is nothing left.”
“ Q uite the con trary,” said B en Haas. “ W hat is left is what
can be given the A p p earan ce o f Substance. A n d the differen ce
betw een the A p p earan ce o f Substance and Substance is so
slight that only the wisest can perceive it. A s the wise are very
few — only thirty-six in the whole w orld, according to some—
very few will notice it. F o r the vast m ajority, A p p earan ce
equals Substance.”
Y esh u a K roch al’s face lit up, because he thought he had
detected a secret idea o f his own in the M aster’s w ords, his
gu id in g idea: that all things here below happen u n d er false
pretenses, on the thin and elusive b o rd er separating Substance
and the A p p earan ce o f Substance, but since no one is able to

• 119 *
pinpoint what is one and what the other (here his idea
d iffered fund am entally from the M aster’s), all values, ethical
and poetic, are m erely a m atter o f skill and chance— em pty
form . Ben H aas sensed his disciple’s hidden idea— fo r the
m an called the M aster did distinguish T ru th from False­
hood— and d eterm ined to reveal the boundary' between es­
sence and illusion to him. H e took him hom e and, in the
course o f the night, did his best to explain, with sim ple yet
instructive exam ples, how an idea, the shadow o f an idea, a
single im age could lead— by the m agic o f the w ord and the
spell o f what cannot be put into w ords— to the grace o f
ap p ro p riate form .
It was daw n when Yeshu a K rochal left the M aster’s room
(in which the strong od o r o f leather-bound books was leav­
ened by the intoxicating fragran ce o f sandalw ood blasphe­
m ously b u rn in g in brass m enorahs: souvenirs from the
M aster’s pilgrim ages). He stopped in at the K oron a and
o rd ered goulash and a stein o f beer, then set to copying out
the m anuscript. By noon the com plete text o f the biblical
p arable entitled The Road to Canaan lay on the table before
him, a clean copy in his own oversize penm anship. He took
the m anuscript containing the M aster’s em endations and
tossed it into the large, tile, cathedral-like stove with its doors
to heaven and h e ll W hen the flam e had destroyed all trace
o f the M aster’s hand and consequently o f his own soul,
Y esh u a K rochal folded his m anuscript, slipped it into the
in n er pocket o f his coat, and, bu rn in g with a fever till then
unnoticed, ord ered another stein o f beer. K arolin a had ju st
set the beer dow n on the edge o f the table when Y eshu a
leaped up and grabbed one o f her large round breasts.
K arolin a stood stock-still fo r a m om ent, like Lot's wife trans­
formed into a pillar o f salt, then started and raised her arm
abruptly, her heavy red hand grazing his nose.
 “ T h is is the A p p earan ce o f Substance,” said Y eshu a
sententiously, “ while that”— he cupped his hand, his fingers
spread wide— “ was Substance.”
The Road to Canaan ap p eared at the end o f 18 9 4 , first in
the jo u rn a l Ha-Yom in H ebrew , then, early the next year,
translated into G erm an, in book form . T h e book earned the
universal acclaim o f the exegetes, all o f w hom fou n d that it
had, as F ran kel says, “ Substance.” O nly youn g B ialik (later
know n as C haim N achm an), who subjected the w ork to a
serious analysis, discovered traces o f the M aster’s hand, which
“ tries to save the parable from the void o f which it reeks.”
B ialik ’s criticism had the follow ing consequences: in the
afterw ord to the new edition o f The Road to Canaan, K rochal
refers to B ialik as a syphilitic and publicly renounces B en
H aas’s teachings, calling him a charlatan and a “ poisoner o f
souls.” T r u e to his position, he allied him self with the M aster’s
adversaries and, in a new publication called Kadima, led a
lon g and m erciless battle against him , “ using gossip and
slan der in a m an n er that showed him to be not entirely
without talent.” O ne unfinished parable fou n d am ong B en
H aas’s papers, entitled “ T h e Story o f the M aster and the
Disciple,” contains no m oral, being incom plete. E xcep t p er­
haps the follow ing: It is difficult to establish a clear-cut
differen ce, in the m oral sense, between Substance and the
A p p earan ce o f Substance. “ N ot even the m an called the
M aster always succeeded in doing so,” says Frankel. “ L ean in g
over the abyss, not even he could resist the vain pleasure o f
tryin g to fill it with Sen se.” W hence we m ay derive a new
m oral, which suggests, as m ight a proverb, that it is dangerous
to lean o ver som eone else’s void even i f only to gaze, as in
the depths o f a well, at on e’s own reflection: fo r that, too, is
vanity. V an ity o f vanities.

•121
To Die for One’s Country

Is Glorious
VV hen, at dawn on that A p ril day, the day set by Im p erial
decree fo r his execution, the guards entered his cell, the
you n g Esterhazy was kneeling on the floor, his hands tightly
clasped in p rayer. His head was bent low and his light hair
fell to either side, revealin g a long, thin neck and ja g g e d
backbone that d isap p eared u n d er a collarless linen shirt. T h e
gu ards paused, considering a count’s conversation with G od
sufficient reason to d isregard, fo r a m om ent, the strict rules
o f Spanish ritual. T h e priest also shrank back, m utely clench­
ing the hands he had brough t together in p rayer. His palm s
w ere sweaty and had left a telltale stain on the ivory covers
o f the breviary; his rosary, its beads the size o f olives, sw ung
silently. T h e only sound cam e from an enorm ous rin g o f
keys which was held by one o f the guards and clanked two
o r three times, unrhythm ically.
“ A m e n ,” the youn g m an w hispered, com ing to the end
o f his m orn in g p rayer. T h e n he ad ded, out loud, “ Forgive
m e, m y fa th e r.”
A t that m om ent, as i f by com m and, the drum s began to
beat, om inous, and m onotonous like rain.
A rud d y-faced , bushy-m ustachioed hussar officer fram ed

125 •
by the lon g rifles o f two Croatian uhlans, one on each side,
started read in g out the sentence. H e had a hoarse voice that
echoed through the cell with a hollow ring. T h e sentence was
harsh and im placable: death by hanging. T h e youn g noble­
m an, w eapon in hand, had taken part in one o f the mass
uprisings— sudden and u n foreseen , bloody, brutal, and hope­
less— that shook the E m p ire from time to time only to be ju st
as suddenly, brutally, and hopelessly crushed. His origins
and the em inence o f his line had been treated by the court
as ag gravatin g circum stances, as a betrayal not only o f the
m onarch but also o f his own caste. T h e punishm ent was
m eant to set an exam ple.
T h e condem ned m an could m ake out scarcely a word
am ong the string o f m onotonous syllables throbbing in his
ears like so m any drum beats. T im e had stopped. Past, present,
and fu tu re had m erged, the drum s beat on, and his tem ples,
like a frantic pulse, pounded with the fa r-o ff sounds o f
victorious assaults and battles, trium phal processions, and
with the beating o f other drum s, drum s d rap ed in black, no
lon ger an n ou ncing his death but the death o f another. His
youth notw ithstanding (he looked m ore like a boy too tall fo r
his age than like a m ature youn g man), he had seen blood
flow and com e face to face with death, though never yet at
such close range. A n d the very proxim ity o f death, the
sensation o f it breath in g on his bare neck, distorted the view
o f reality reachin g his consciousness, ju st as fo r an astigmatic
the proxim ity o f an object serves only to m ake it ap p ear m ore
m isshapen. A ll that m attered to him— because what his world
valued most besides an honorable life was an honorable
death— was to p reserve the dignity required o f an Esterhazy
at such a m om ent.
H e had spent the night awake but with his eyes shut and
w ithout so m uch as a sigh, so that the gu ard , whose eye was

126-
glued to the peephole, m ight testify that the condem ned m an
had slept soundly, as i f he w ere going to the altar rather than
to his death. A n d , in a strange inversion o f time, he could
already h ear the gu ard telling the officers’ mess, “ Gentlem en,
the youn g Esterhazy slept quite soundly that night, without
so m uch as a sigh, as if going to his w edding rath er than to
his hanging. I give you m y w ord as an officer! Gentlem en,
let us ren d er him his d u e !” A fte r which was heard— he
heard— the crystal p ing o f glasses. “ Bottom s u p !”
T h e thrill o f death, the victory o f self-control had not
left him all m orning. H e m aintained his com posure through
p rayer, gritting his teeth to resist the cow ardly behavior o f
his intestines and solar plexus, those traitors to will and
determ ination; he steeled his m anhood by recourse to fam ily
legend. T h u s it was that when, in accordance with com pas­
sionate protocol, he was vouchsafed a last request, he did not
ask fo r a glass o f water, though his insides w ere on fire; he
asked fo r a cigarette, like an ancestor who had once, long
befo re, requested a pinch o f tobacco, which he had then
chew ed and spit in the face o f his executioner.
T h e officer clicked his heels and offered him his silver
cigarette case. (“ Gentlem en, I give you my w ord as an officer.
His hand did not trem ble any m ore than m ine trem bles now
as I hold this glass. Bottom s u p !” ) In the rays o f the early-
m orn in g sun, which cut diagonally across the cell as across
the cells o f saints in old paintings, the cigarette sm oke rose
pu rp le like the dawn. T h e condem ned m an sensed that the
sm oke, a resplendent illusion, had m om entarily sapped his
strength, broken him , as i f he had heard the sound o f a
flageolet p o u rin g out over a distant plain, and he quickly
tossed the cigarette to the floor and crushed it with a spurless
hussar boot.
“ G entlem en, I am rea d y.”

127 *
 C hosen fo r its m ilitary starkness, as b rie f as a com m and,
as bare as an unsheathed saber, and as cold, the phrase was
m eant to be pronounced like a passw ord, without em otion,
as one says “ G ood night, gentlem en” at the end o f a drin kin g
bout. B u t now he felt it did not sound at all w orthy o f history.
His voice was pu re and sonorous, the syllables distinct, the
sentence straigh tforw ard but a bit flaccid and cracked
som ehow.
Since the day his m other visited him he had realized that
despite a wild hope, wild and secret, his life was henceforth
no m ore than a tragic farce written by people nearly as
p ow erful as gods.
She had stood befo re him, stolid, strong, with a veil over
her face, filling the cell with her being, her person, her
character, her large plum ed hat, and her skirts, which swished
though she m ade not the slightest m ovem ent. She refused
the sim ple prison stool p ro ffered by the uhlans, who thereby
accorded her an honor they had surely never accorded anyone
else there; she p retend ed not to notice them placing the
sim ple w ooden seat, appallingly sim ple beside her silk
flounces, next to her. She thus rem ained standing throughout
her visit. She spoke to him in French, so as to rattle the
hussar officer stationed o ff to one side at an ap p rop riate
distance, his sw ord across the left shou lder in what was m ore
an honor g u a rd ’s salute to the aristocrat (whose nobility was
as ancient as that o f the E m p ero r him self) than a precaution
o r threat to the proud w om an visiting the Im p erial prison.
“ I shall throw m yself at his feet,” she w hispered.
“ I am read y to die, M other,” he said.
She cut him o ff with a stern, perhaps too stern, “M on fils,
reprenez courage/”
T h e n fo r the first time she turned her head slightly in

128*
the direction o f the gu ard . H er voice, still no m ore than a
w hisper, fused with the w hisper o f her flounces. “ I shall be
standing on the balcony,” she said, all but inaudibly. “ I f I am
in white, it m eans that I have succeeded in . .
“ O therw ise, you will be in black, I p resum e,” he said.
H e was torn from his lethargy by the drum s, which had
started beating again, n earer now it seem ed, and he realized,
fro m the sudden anim ation o f a scene which had theretofore
stood im m obile b efore him in a kind o f m ute perm anence,
that the read in g o f the sentence was over: the officer rolled
up the scroll; the priest leaned over him and blessed him
with the sign o f the cross; the guards took hold o f his arm s.
H e did not allow the two uhlans to lift him, but rose lightly
to his feet, barely supported by them. T h en , even befo re he
had crossed the threshold o f the cell, he experien ced a sudden
feelin g o f certainty— ap p earin g first in his breast, then su f­
fu sin g his entire body— that it w ould all end as the logic o f
life dem and ed. Because everything was now arrayed against
death, everythin g in the nightm are stood on the side o f life:
his youth, his origins, his fam ily’s em inence, his m other’s
love, the E m p e ro r’s m ercy, and the very sun stream ing down
on him as he stepped into the carriage, his arm s bound
behind his back as i f he w ere a com m on crim inal.
B u t that lasted only fo r a m om ent, only until the carriage
reached the boulevard, w here a boisterous m ob, gathered
from all o ver the E m p ire, stood waiting fo r him. T h ro u g h
the interm ittent d rum rolls he heard the buzz o f the crow d,
its threaten in g m urm u r; he saw fists raised in hate. T h e
crow d was cheerin g Im p erial justice, because the mob always
cheers the victor. T h a t realization crushed him. His head
sank a bit on his chest, his shoulders drew slightly together
as if w ard in g o ff blows (a stone or two was hu rled at him),

• 129*
his back bent a little m ore. B u t the d ifferen ce was enough
fo r the rabble to sense that his courage had left him and his
p rid e was shattered; it elicited cheers o f som ething akin to
ju bilation . (Because the mob loves to see the proud and the
brave bro u gh t low.)
W hen he cam e to the head o f the boulevard, w here the
residences o f the nobility began and the crowd thinned out
a bit, he raised his eyes. In the light o f the m orn in g sun he
glim psed a blin ding white spot on the balcony. L ean in g over
the railing, all in white, stood his m other, and behind her—
as if to enhance the lily-white brilliance o f her dress— the
en orm ous d ark green leaves o f a philoden dron . (H e knew
that dress well: it was an heirloom ; one o f his ancestors had
worn it to an Im perial w edding.)
Im m ediately, alm ost insolently, he straightened up, wish­
ing to m ake it clear to the threatening mob that an Esterhazy
could not die ju st like that, that he could not be hanged like
som e highw aym an.
A n d thus he stood beneath the gallows. Even as the
hangm an rem oved the stool from u n d er his feet, he awaited
the m iracle. T h e n his body twisted at the end o f the rope
and his eyes bulged out o f their sockets, as if he had ju st
seen som ething aw ful and terrifyin g.
“ I stood only a few paces away from him, gentlem en,”
the hussar with the bushy m ustache told his fellow officers at
mess that evening. “ W hen the rope went down over his neck,
he w atched the h an gm an ’s hands as calm ly as if they w ere
tying a brocade sc arf fo r him . . . I give you my word as an
officer, gen tlem en !”
T h e r e are two possible conclusions. Either the youn g
aristocrat died a brave and noble death, fully conscious o f
the certainty th ereof, his head held high, o r the whole thing

• i 3 ° ’
was m erely a clever bit o f playacting directed by a p roud
m other. T h e first, heroic, version was upheld and p rom ul­
gated— orally, and then in w riting, in their chronicles— by
the sans-culottes and Jaco b in s; the second, according to which
the you n g m an hoped to the very end fo r som e m agical
sleight o f hand, was recorded by the official historians o f the
p ow erfu l H absbu rg dynasty to p revent the birth o f a legend.
H istory is written by the victors. Legen d s are w oven by the
people. W riters fantasize. O nly death is certain.

•131
The Book of Kings and Fools
j

I
I

' [1]

T h e crim e, not to be perp etrated until som e forty years

later, was p refig u red in a Petersburg new spaper in A u gu st
19 0 6 . T h e articles ap p eared serially and w ere signed by the
p a p e r’s editor-in-chief, a certain K rushevan , A . P. K rushevan ,
who, as the instigator o f the K ishinev pogrom s, had a good
fifty m u rd ers on his conscience. (T h rou gh ou t the darken ed
room s, m utilated bodies lie in pools o f blood an d rap ed girls
stare w ild-eyed into the void from behind heavy, ren t curtains.
T h e scene is real en ough, as real as the corpses; the only
artificial elem ent in the nightm arish setting is the snow. “Pieces
o f furniture, broken mirrors and lamps, linen, clothing, mattresses,
and slashed quilts are strewn about the streets. The roads are deep in
snow: eiderdown feathers everywhere; even the trees are covered with
them ”) T h u s, K ru sh evan w ould take credit fo r bein g the first
to publish a docum ent dem onstrating the existence o f a
w orldw id e conspiracy against Christianity, the T sa r, and the
status quo. H e did not, how ever, disclose the origin o f the
m ysterious docum ent— on which he based his indictm ent—
m aking do with an o ffh an d rem ark to the effect that the text
was w ritten “ som ew here in F ran ce.” T h e title given to it by

135 ’
the anonym ous translator was The Conspiracy, or The Roots o f
the Disintegration o f European Society.
K ru sh evan subm itted an expan d ed version o f The Con­
spiracy to the Im p erial censors, and a year later, u n der the
p atron age o f the Im perial G u ard , it m ade its first appearance
as a book. T h e publisher was listed as the P etersburg Society
fo r the D e a f and Dum b. (W hether the choice was m eant to
be sym bolic is difficult to ascertain.)
K ru sh e va n ’s texts, the cause o f m any passions and m uch
puzzlem ent, eventually fell into good groun d and foun d a
read y ear in the person o f an eccentric herm it who, while
aw aiting signs from heaven in his T sarskoe Selo solitude, was
en gaged in p rep arin g an account o f his personal mystical
revelations. Father Sergei, as he was called, considered The
Conspiracy a confirm ation o f his own suspicions and evidence
o f the disintegration o f faith and practice. H e th erefore
included the precious docum ent in his Antichrist, treating it
as an integral part o f a revelation that had enlightened two
souls sim ultaneously. A n d as p ro o f that the heavenly hosts
w ere not yet vanquished.
T h e local Red Cross chapter volunteered to publish his
book. It cam e out in a d eluxe, gold-em bossed, Ja p a n ese-
p ap er edition to rem ind the read er o f hum an artistry, which
can be a re fu g e from evil and a source o f new, platonic
stirrings. O ne copy was reserved fo r His Im perial M ajesty
N icholas II. (T h e T s a r fairly devoured mystical works, be­
lieving that hell could be avoided by a com bination o f
education and deceit.) T h o se who had the privilege o f being
initiated into the G reat M ystery revealed by the book w ere
th un derstruck: the w orkings o f E urop ean history', m ore or
less from the French Revolution on, w ere laid out before
them . Every thing that had previously seem ed the result o f

136 •
chance and heavenly m achination, a battle o f sublim e p rin ­
ciples and fate, all o f it— this m urky history as capricious as
the gods on O lym pus— was now clear as day: som eone here
below was pullin g the strings. H ere was p ro o f not only that
the A ntichrist exists (which no one had doubted) but also
that the Evil O ne has his earthly acolytes. T h e M etropolitan
o f A ll the Russias, who felt the scales fall from his eyes as he
p ictured the legions o f the Antichrist invading H oly Russia,
com m anded all his three h u n dred and eight M oscow churches
to read out excerpts from the book instead o f celebrating
Mass.
T h u s the stern laws o f the Bible, which preaches justice
and severe punishm ent, w ere now to be supplem ented by
the m ysterious Conspiracy. The Conspiracy contained, or ap ­
p eared to contain, everythin g that was in the Scriptures: laws
an d penalties fo r transgressors. M oreover, its origins w ere as
m ysterious as the origins o f the Bible— N ilus, the m odest
com piler, served m erely as com m entator and editor; an
exegete, as it w ere. T h e only differen ce was that The Conspiracy,
its hazy origins notwithstanding, rem ained a hum an creation,
which m ade it seductive, suspect, and crim inal.
W e shall now investigate the origins o f the text, attem pt
to throw som e light on the people who created it (endow ing
their insolent p roced u re with the p rerogatives o f divine
anonym ity), and, finally, trace its d ire consequences.

[2]

S ergei A lexan d rovich N ilus, au th or o f The Antichrist, Father

S ergei to initiates, entered the historical arena direct from
the d ark ages o f Russian feudalism . H aving lost his estate,

137 ‘
he started m aking pilgrim ages to m onasteries, w here he would
light lon g yellow candles fo r the repose o f sinful souls and
beat his foreh ead on the cold stone o f the cells. W herever he
went, he studied the lives o f saints and holy fools, and
discovered in them analogies to his own spiritual life. He
consequently hit upon the idea o f w riting down the story o f
his own w an derin gs— from anarchism and godlessness to the
true faith— and proclaim ing his revelation to the w orld:
con tem p orary civilization was on the brink o f ruin; the
A ntichrist was at the gates, already setting his vile seal in
hidden places— u n d er w om en’s breasts and on m en’s groins.
K ru sh e va n ’s articles ap p eared ju st as N ilus was com plet­
ing his autobiography. “ T h e seed fell into good g ro u n d .”
In M ay 19 2 1 a French traveler by the nam e o f du Chayla
published an article (in the b elief that the Revolution had
w iped the old sinner from the face o f the earth) treating
Nilus with the respect custom arily reserved for the dead:
“ B e fo re op en in g the precious chest, he read me fragm ents
from his book and from the source m aterial he had gath ered:
the dream s o f M etropolitan Philaret, an encyclical o f Pope
Pius X , the prophesies o f St. Seraphim o f Sarov, together
with passages from Ibsen, Solovyov, M erezhkovsky . . . T h en
he op en ed the reliquary. L yin g there in frigh tfu l disarray
w ere detachable collars, silver spoons, badges o f various
technical schools, m onogram s o f the E m press A lexan d ra
Fyod oro vn a, a cross o f the Legion o f H onor. His febrile
im agination discerned the ‘seal o f the A ntichrist’— a triangle,
or two crossed triangles— in everything: galoshes m ade at the
R iga T re u g o ln ik (T rian gle) Factory, the E m p ress’s stylized
initials, the five arm s com prising the cross o f the Legion o f
H o n o r.”
M on sieu r du Chayla, reared on the Enlightenm ent,

138*
looked upon all this with doubt and suspicion; he dem anded
proof positive. T h e “ C h arter o f the R eign o f the Antichrist”
was clearly as m uch a hoax as those o f D rum ont o r L eo T a xil,
who had recently d u ped the whole o f the Catholic world.
W hile the doubting disciple o f positivism expo u n d ed his
suspicions, F ath er Sergei stood up and sn uffed out the candle
with his bare fingers. Dusk fell, but the room was still light:
the snow shone white outdoors and the sam ovar glistened
like a Chinese lantern. N ilus m otioned his visitor over to the
w indow. T h e silhouette o f a m an on his way to the m onastery
stood out against the snow. T h e y could hear the snow
cru nch ing beneath his feet. “ Do you know who that was?”
Fath er S ergei asked after the footsteps had died away, his
eyes gleam in g with a m aniacal gleam . “T h e pharm acist David
K ozelsk, o r Kozelsky. (With them , one n ever knows.) On the
p retext o f seeking a shortcut to the ferry — which is on the
fa r side o f the m onastery grounds— he is snooping about,
tryin g to get hold o f this.” A n d he spread his huge peasant’s
hand over the book, which now lay in a black case on his
desk. Even in the sem i-darkness the visitor could m ake out a
sm all gilt im age o f the A rch an gel M ichael on the front. Father
Sergei m ade the sign o f the cross over it as i f blessing a lo a f
o f bread.

3
[ ]

M aria D m itrievna Kashkina, nee the Countess Bu turlina, had

this to say about Father Sergei from a distance o f thirty years:
“ N ilus lived with his w ife, nee O zerova, and his first mistress,
a divorcee, in a house belonging to the m onastery. A third
w om an, sickly and always accom panied by h er twelve-year-

• 139 •
old d au gh ter, would jo in them from time to time. N ilus was
ru m o red to be the girl’s father. (T he girl served as m edium
at the seances arran ged by N ilus’s friends.) I often saw them
out w alking together— N ilus in the m iddle, sportin g a long
white beard, a bright peasant shirt, and the rope o f a m onk’s
habit aro u n d his waist; the two wom en on either side, hanging
on his every w ord; and the girl and her m other tagging along
behind. W hen they reached the woods, they would stop in
the shade o f a tree; O zerova would take out her watercolors,
the other w om an her knitting, and Nilus w ould stretch out
next to them and gaze up at the sky in com plete and utter
silence.”
In the follow ing passage, the sam e M. D. Kashkina lifts
a co rn er o f the veil concealing the mad w orld in which The
Conspiracy m ade such headw ay, a world com bining supersti­
tion, d eran ged mysticism, and the occult with religious fa­
naticism and debauchery: “ Nilus had b efrien d ed a m onk at
the m onastery, a m an o f rather questionable m orals but not
without talent as a painter. On Nilus's suggestion, the monk
had done a painting show ing the Im perial fam ily hovering
in the clouds while horned devils em ergin g from dark cum uli
brandish pitchforks and stick out their forked tongues m en­
acingly at the youn g T sarevich . T h e devils are held at bay by
a local m onk, Mitya K alaida, also known as B arefo o t Mitya,
who has com e ru n n in g to crush the Satanic hosts and save
the T sarevich . N ilus, thanks to his w ife, nee O zerova, con­
trived to have the canvas presented to the court in St.
Petersburg. Mitya was quickly sent for. H e arrived attended
by N ilus, who translated the incom prehensible m utterings o f
the feeblem in ded m onk into hum an speech.”

140*
 [ 4 ]

A bio grap h y o f N ilus published in Novi Sad in 19 3 6 depicts

S ergei A lexan d rovich as a m an o f G od, a righteous m an, and
accepts the m ysterious Conspiracy docum ent as an authentic
channel, m uch like the m outh o f a m edium , fo r the voice o f
the Devil. Prince N. D. Zhevakhov (who cam e to N ovi Sad
via Constantinople and foun d there a countryside sim ilar to
the countryside o f his childhood: a plain gently rising into
hills like a w ave o f green) does not doubt fo r a m om ent the
argum ents set forth in The Conspiracy: it is “ the w ork o f an
infidel and dictated by the Evil O ne him self, who revealed to
him his schem e fo r destroying the Christian nations and
achieving w orld dom ination.” (As fo r Prince Zhevakhov, I
have a feelin g I m et him once on a cold day in 19 6 5 in a
N ovi Sad cafeteria n ear the Catholic churchyard. H e was a
tall, thin, slightly stooped m an with a pince-nez and a dark
thread bare jack et and greasy black tie; in other w ords, he fit
his con tem poraries’ description o f him. H e spoke with a heavy
R ussian accent and sported the O rd er o f St. Nicholas on his
lapel. H e stood at a counter, his nicotine-stained fingers
leafin g throu gh the p u ff pastry o f a burek as i f it w ere a book.)
From Z h evakhov’s biograp hy we learn, to o u r surprise,
that S ergei A lexan d rovich Nilus spent the years im m ediately
follow ing the R evolution in peace and quiet som ew here in
the south o f Russia with his w ife, nee O zerova. (All trace o f
the other two wom en was lost in the turm oil o f the Revolution,
but there is som e indication that the twelve-year-old m edium
becam e a police in form er.) N ilus shared his room s with a
herm it by the nam e o f Seraphim and gave serm ons in a
n earby chapel. T h e terror, the fam ine, the blood— they w ere
all so m uch evidence that the reign o f the Antichrist w ould

141
com e about exactly as The Conspiracy had predicted. T h e
triangles, which had previously assum ed the guise o f a
m ysterious code, now sw arm ed about openly— like beetles—
en graved on the buttons o f m ilitary tunics and caps. (At this
point F ath er Sergei would scoop a hand ful o f metal buttons
from the d eep pocket o f his habit and hold them out as a
corpus diabolici.)
From a letter— postm arked O ran, M arseilles, Constanti­
nople, Paris, Srem ska M itrovica, and Novi Sad; it reached
Prince Zhevakhov like a missive from the beyond— we learn
that in the terrible year o f 19 2 1 a three-m an Red A rm y
detachm ent happen ed upon the house in which the two
righteous m en w ere living and that the soldiers were about
to kill them when a m onk ap p eared in their path, his arm s
raised to heaven. T h e soldier in charge, a well-known local
bandit, triangles gleam ing like fresh wounds on the cap above
his foreh ead , was sudd enly convulsed and toppled from his
horse as if struck by lightning. T h e horse sw ung around and
bolted, and was soon follow ed by the other two riders. W hen
Serap h im the herm it and Father Sergei turned to thank the
m ysterious gu ard ian m onk fo r having saved their lives, all
they foun d on the spot w here he had stood, lifting his arm s
up to heaven, was a hoverin g wisp o f mist and a patch o f
tram pled grass, already uncoiling like green springs.
T h e ultim ate victory, how ever, fell to the Evil One. Late
one night a security police detail knocked on the door o f the
m onastic residence. T h e ir light showed Father Sergei huddled
against his w ife on one side and the stove, still w arm , on the
other. G rab b in g him by the beard, they pulled him out o f
bed. T h e righteous protector who had saved them the first
time failed to reap p ear. Sergei A lexan drovich Nilus died o f
a heart attack in a labor cam p on New Y e a r ’s D ay 19 3 0 , never

142 •
know ing o f the crim e his Antichrist was soon to precipitate.
(His w ife, O zerova, who had once been a m aid o f honor at
the court, ended h er days seven years later in a labor cam p
on the A rctic coast.)

5
[ ]

W hile, fa r from the m add ing crow d, Father Sergei went about
collecting tokens o f the Devil, a copy o f his book fell into the
hands o f the fo rm er Em press, who, with the rest o f the
Im p erial fam ily, was being held at the estate o f the Ipatievs
in Y ekaterin b u rg. A crack W hite C avalry squadron eventually
m an aged to take the town, but it arrived too late: all that was
left o f the Im p erial fam ily was a heap o f bones. H ere is how
a con tem porary, Byko v by nam e, describes the event: “ A t
about two o’clock in the m orning a rou n d o f shooting broke
out in the basem ent o f the Ipatievs’ m anor house. We heard
terrified cries fo r help, then a few isolated shots finishing o ff
one o f the children. A n d then the heavy silence o f the
Siberian night. T h e corpses, still w arm , w ere transported in
utter secrecy to a n earby wood, w here they w ere hacked to
pieces, doused with sulfuric acid, sprinkled with gasoline,
and set on fire. T h e aw ful m ixture o f putrid, m ashed hum an
rem ains and ch arred bits o f bone and jew elry— gleam ing
diam onds on p uru len t flesh— was hastily tossed into an aban­
don ed m in e.”
T h e com m ission set up in the Ipatievs’ house to com pile
an inventory o f the possessions left by the Im p erial fam ily
(T u la sam ovars with ivory handles, tapestries, French p o r­
celain cham ber pots, several eighteenth-century m asters, and
one un signed canvas in which the Im p erial fam ily, their eyes

• 143 *
go u ged out, are d riftin g tow ard heaven on a bank o f clouds)
discovered u n d er a pile o f fu rn itu re and valuable icons what
ap p eared to be the E m p ress’s personal library. T h e books
w ere fo r the most part ecclesiastical or mystical texts in
G erm an , Fren ch, and Russian. T h re e o f them definitely
belon ged to the Em press: a Russian Bible, the first volum e
o f War and Peace, and N ilus’s Conspiracy (the third edition, o f
19 17 ) . O n each o f these books the Em press, anticipating her
ineluctable end, had draw n a swastika, symbol o f happiness
and divine grace.

6
[ ]

T h e chance discovery o f The Conspiracy with the swastika

draw n by the blessed hand o f the Em press proved a revelation
fo r m any. A cco rd in g to the testim ony o f English officers
attached to D enikin’s arm y, there was a p op u lar edition for
“ all soldiers able to rea d ,” and it was m eant not only to shore
up the m en ’s d w indling m orale but to celebrate the m em ory
o f the E m press, the new m artyr.
G ath erin g round the fire, the soldiers listen to their
officers read in g from N ilus’s prophesies and The Conspiracy,
the silence between words in terrupted only by the w hisper
o f large snow flakes and the occasional neigh o f a Cossack
horse at what sounds like a great distance. “ I f every state has
two en em ies,” the crystal-clear voice o f the officer rings out,
“ and i f the state is perm itted to use any sort o f violence—
such as night raids or offensives with troops o f vast num erical
sup eriority— against an external foe, why should it consider
such m easures im perm issible and unnatural against an in ter­
nal one, a w orse enem y, in fact, who would com pletely destroy
the existing social o rd e r and p rosp erity?”

144 •
 T h e officer lowers the book to his side fo r a mom ent,
m arking the place with his in dex finger. “ T h at, gentlem en,
is the kind o f m orals they p reach .”
(T h e officer’s orderly takes advantage o f the break to
bru sh the newly accum ulated snow o ff the tent flap over his
head.)
“ T h e w ord ‘freed o m ’ ”— he enunciates it as if it w ere in
italics— “ incites hum an societies to do battle with every force,
every pow er, even the divine. W hich is why, w hen we rule
the w orld . . . ” (H ere again he lowers the book, his finger
betw een two pages.) “ I d o n ’t im agine I need tell you, gentle­
m en, who the m ysterious ‘w e’ is; we is them” H e then raises
the book, satisfied that the form ula has m ade the point fo r
him. “ A n d so w hen we— that is, they— have conquered the
w orld, we shall consider it ou r duty to exp u n ge the w ord
‘freed o m ’ from the vocabulary o f m an. F or freedo m is the
incarnation o f the life spirit and has the pow er to turn the
crow d into bloodthirsty beasts, though, o f course, like all
beasts, once given their fill o f blood, they fall asleep, and are
thus easily en chain ed.”
B y then the fren zied troops, arm ed with their new
know ledge, are ready to pitch rem orselessly into pogrom s. A
certain Encyclopedia— w hose objectivity has been contested by
som e, especially Conspiracy addicts— estimates the num ber o f
persons m assacred between 1 9 18 and 19 2 0 to be a p p ro x i­
m ately sixty thousand, in the U krain e alone.

[ ] 7
T h e lu ggage o f W hite officers (departing their hom eland on
A llied ships) was wont to include— am ong the N ew Testam ent
and D ahl’s Dictionary and m onogram m ed towels— a copy o f

‘ 1 45 *
The Antichrist com plete with fingernail m arkings in the m ar­
gins. T h e alm ost im m ediate French, G erm an, and English
translations o f the book w ere greatly facilitated by the Russian
em igres’ linguistic prowess.
E xp erts have been hard put to clear up the m ystery o f
the m an u script’s origin. T h e ir com m entaries, teem ing with
the most m uddled and contradictory statements, lead one to
conclude, tout compte fait, that access to the text on which The
Conspiracy is based involves great danger. T h e archive housing
the original is a kind o f antecham ber to hell— one does not
en ter twice the gate sealed with seven seals o f m ystery. In deed,
only one person has ever succeeded in entering even once, a
person com bining the cunning o f a fox, the agility o f a cat,
and the heart o f an otter. French sources claim that a wom an
stole the m anuscript in Alsace (or Nice) while her lover slept
the sleep o f the ju st, n ever suspecting that his secret dream
o f w orld conquest would soon be proclaim ed to a blind and
d e a f m ankind. A cco rd in g to a statement m ade by Pyotr
Petrovich Stepanov, fo rm er procu rator o f the Moscow Synod,
fo rm er C ourt C ounselor, and so on and so forth, a statement
m ade u n d er oath on the 17th o f A p ril in the year 19 2 7 at
Stari Futog, the said Stepanov had the m anuscript in his
possession as late as the turn o f the century. H e published it
in a Russian version at his own expense, with no indication
o f year o r place o f publication, no referen ce to author or
publisher— “ fo r personal use on ly.” T h e m anuscript had been
delivered to him from Paris by a wom an frien d. A M adam e
Shishm aryova identifies the author as a follow er o f M aimon-
ides by the nam e o f A sh er G inzberg: the original H ebrew
text set dow n in his hand som ew here in O dessa serves, she
claim s, as the basis fo r all ensuing translations. T h e plan fo r
w orld conquest, born in the sick m ind o f M aim onides’s

146*
disciple, was supposedly ap p roved by his cohorts at a secret
congress in Brussels in 18 9 7 . Russian em igres w ere known
to fav o r prom inent supporters with a typed copy o f The
Antichrist in translation (incorporating The Conspiracy), and at
a Paris m asked ball in 19 2 3 The Antichrist— together with a
roast goose and a tin o f caviar— was the prize fo r a w inning
raffle ticket. A n d that un fortun ate exile, Jo ach im A lbrecht o f
Prussia, passed out copies o f the Nilus book to waiters, taxi
drivers, and lift boys! “ A ll the gentlem en need do is read it
throu gh and everythin g will be clear— not only the reasons
fo r m y own exile but also the causes o f the unprecedented
rate o f inflation and the scandalous deterioration in hotel
services.” A copy o f the book bearin g the Gothic-script
signature o f the last H ohenzollern (it was inscribed to the
head c h e f o f a leadin g Parisian restaurant, though his u n ­
w orthy heir later put it up fo r auction) indicates that the
Prince ow ned the first G erm an edition, which was printed in
19 2 0 , at the instigation o f the sam e G erm an nationalist elite
that published the notorious A u f Vorposten. “ N o book since
the invention o f the p rinting press, since the invention o f the
alphabet, has done m ore to fan the flam es o f nationalist
fe rv o r,” the jo u rn a l rep orted in a telling overstatem ent. Its
conclusion is apocalyptic: “ I f the nations o f E u ro p e fail to
rise up against the com m on enem y who reveals its secret
plans in this book, o u r civilization will be destroyed by the
sam e ferm en t and decay which destroyed classical antiquity
two thousand years ag o .”
Five reprin tin gs in quick succession testify to the w ork’s
unequivocal popularity.
Its authenticity is unequivocal as well: N ilus’s Antichrist,
the basis fo r all translations, exists in black-and-white at the
British M useum . A n d since most m ortals look upon any

147 •
printed w ord as H oly W rit, m any have accepted the book
itself as p r o o f and think no m ore about it. “ Can it be that a
band o f crim inals has actually w orked out such a p lan,” asks
a h orrified Times editor, “ and is even now rejoicing as it comes
to life?” T h e collection housing the prim a facie evidence
harbors m any secrets am ong its dust-laden shelves. W hen
chance, fate, and time meet in a favorable constellation, their
point o f intersection will o f necessity pass through the dusky
vaults o f the British M useum .

8
[ ]

O ne strand o f ou r intricate narrative now takes us to a third-

rate hotel o ff a large square. In the fo reg ro u n d we see a
religious edifice— a cathedral or a m osque. Ju d gin g by the
faded green stam ps on the postcard, it could be H agia Sophia.
T h e card is postm arked 1 9 2 1 . T h e re is a Russian em igre
living in the hotel; he is A rk ad y Ippolitovich Belogortsev, a
cavalry captain in w artim e, in civilian life a forestry expert.
We know very little about his past; he does not like to speak
about it. (His letters deal with the w eather, G od, and customs
o f the O rient.) T h e services he once p erform ed fo r the T sarist
secret police, the O khrana, have lost their luster here in exile.
T h e m ain reason he left Russia, he claims, is that he feels an
obligation to uphold his allegiance to the T sa r: an officer may
not violate his oath. It was this categorical im perative— the
code o f honor o f his class— that led him, on an English ship,
to Constantinople. H ere he w eighed anchor. Filthy hotels,
cockroaches, nostalgia. A . I. Belogortsev foun d it m ore and
m ore difficult to hold his head up. First he paw ned a silver
watch with the T s a r ’s initials and a gold chain (a gift from

•148*
his father); then he sold his copy o f D ahl’s Dictionary o f the
Russian Language (after rem oving his ex libris: two crossed
swords with a cross in the m iddle), his cerem onial saber, the
silver sn uffbox, the signet ring, the kid gloves, the am ber
cigarette holder, and finally, his galoshes.
T h e n one day it was time to sell all the other books in
his cherry-colored suitcase. (In their terrible leisure the W hite
officers used poetry as a kind o f m ental hygiene, a substitute
fo r political passions. T h e works o f the Russian poets went
rou n d and rou n d the secondhand bookshops like cards pass­
in g from hand to hand.) B elogortsev’s only consolation came
from a bit o f ad hoc wisdom : by the time one has reached
m aturity, one has derived all there is to be derived from
books— illusion and doubt. O ne cannot fo rev er cart on e’s
library aro u n d on on e’s back like a snail. A m an ’s personal
library is only w hat stays in his m em ory— the quintessence,
the sedim ent. (T o him the nam e Dahl sounded like the title
o f a poem .) A n d what was the quintessence? H e knew Onegin
by heart, Ruslan and Ludmila nearly by heart; he recited
Lerm on tov while applyin g alum to his shaving nicks (“5
svintsom v grudi . . .” ), and som etim es Blok, A nnensky, G u m ­
ilyov, the odd fragm en tary line or two from others. A n d what
was the sedim ent? Som e stanzas by Fet, B yro n , Musset.
(H un ger, pace the Stoics, is no help to m em ory.) V erlain e,
“ L e Colloque sentim ental,” Lam artine, and various other bits
an d pieces that surfaced at random , out o f context: “ Vous
mourutes au bord oil vous futes laissee,” by Racine o r Corneille.
“ Besides, gentlem en, w hat is the point o f having a
p ersonal library? A t best, it is no m ore than an aide-memoire.
Let us set aside poetry fo r the m om ent,” the fo rm er ow ner
o f the fam ily library continued, “ and turn to serious matters.
(Perhaps the Bolsheviks are correct w hen they claim that
p oetry is m ere haze o r propagan da.) We are in the woods,

149 *
som ew here in Anatolia o r Serbia. (A propos, everyone is
h eadin g fo r Serbia now.) H ere with me is o u r d ea r”— he goes
up to her, takes h er by the hand; they go fo r a stroll through
the woods— “ Y ekaterin a A lexeevn a . . . M oonlight. I am who
I am , as H erm es Trism egistu s would say, that is, A rk ad y
Ippolitovich Belogortsev, a forestry exp ert in civilian life.
(T h at is very im portant, gend em en: a forestry expert.) A ll at
once Y ekaterin a A lexeevn a asks the fatal question: ‘T e ll me,
please, what kind o f flower is that?’ I am an honest man and
cannot dissem ble. ‘D ear et cetera, et cetera, I must confess I
d o n ’t know. B u t,’ I add instantly, ‘ I can run hom e and look
it up in my handy referen ce lib rary.’ ”
T h e y all had a good laugh. Y et they also realized that
the only reason A rk ad y Ippolitovich was carryin g on as he
was, tipsy or not, was to vent his g rie f at having sold the
library which he had carted over land and sea in a leather
suitcase, on his back, like a snail.
M r. X , the lucky buyer, who “ kept a certain distance”
from it all, felt uneasy. He had the im pression that all eyes
w ere on him and that they w ere full o f reproach.

9
[ ]

T h e next day, though him self a bit hung over, X took stock
o f the books: he had not yet exam ined them carefully. T h e
reports o f their value— exclu din g sentim ental value, o f
course— now ap p eared overblown to him. T h e only w ork in
the lot he foun d w orthy o f interest was Field Notes o f a Russian
Officer, and that he w ould have returned to A rk ad y Ip p o li­
tovich if to do so had not seem ed an insult. H e had purchased
the books en bloc, as he later said, and principally to prevent

150
“ the m oral collapse o f a T sarist officer and frien d .” T h e re is
no denying, how ever, that he grew interested, genuinely
interested, in the Field Notes (it was au tographed by Lazhech­
nikov) as he sat hunched over the leather suitcase in his
w retched room at the Royal (not the R oyal in the center o f
town, the other one, the one that wears its battered signboard
like a sneer). “ W hat will rem ain o f us, gentlem en?” he said
in an un derton e, as i f to him self. “ L ove letters!” W hereupon
his com panion blurted out, “A n d unpaid hotel bills.”
T h e list is not particularly long. De Las Cases, Memorial
de Sainte-Helene (no date; the fron t m atter has apparently
been torn out); Selected Sketches and Anecdotes o f His Highness
the Emperor Alexander I , Moscow, 18 2 6 ; Letters o fM . A. Volkova
to Madame Lanska, Moscow, 18 7 4 ; P. M. Bykov, The Last Days
o f Tsardom, L on d o n (no date); The Confessions o f Napoleon
Bonaparte to the Abbot M aury, translated from the French,
M oscow, 18 5 9 ; I. P. Skobalyov, Gifts fo r Friends, or Correspon­
dence o f Russian Ojficers, St. Petersburg, 18 3 3 ; M arm ont, M e-
moires 1 7 7 2 —1 8 4 1 , Paris, 18 5 7 (the first three volum es, with
the au to graph “ M arm ont, m arechal, due de R agu se” ); Denis
D avydov, Materials fo r a History o f Modern War (no date or
place o f publication); Mistress B rad d o n (M ary Elizabeth
B rad d on ), Aurora Floyd, St. Petersburg, 18 7 0 ; C ount F. V.
Rastopchin, Notes, Moscow, 18 8 9 ; D. S. M erezhkovsky, Tolstoy
and Dostoevsky, St. Petersburg, 19 0 3 (signed and inscribed to
a certain V . M. Shchukina); A . S. Pushkin, Works, edited by
V . I. Saitov in three volum es, Im p erial A cadem y o f Sciences,
St. Petersburg, 1 9 1 1 ; K nu t H am sun, Complete Works (the first
fo u r volum es), St. Petersburg, 19 10 ; Materials on the History
o f the Pogrom in Russia, Petrograd, 19 19 ; A . S. Pushkin, Cor­
respondence 1 8 1 5 - 1 8 3 7 , St. Petersburg, 19 0 6; L. N. Tolstoy,
War and Peace, third edition, Moscow, 18 7 3 ; L. N. Tolstoy,

! 5i *
Sevastopol Sketches, Moscow, 1 9 1 3 ; R ichard W ilton, The Last
Days o f the Romanovs, L on d on, 19 2 0 ; A Survey o f Notes, Diaries,
Memoirs, Letters, and Travelogues Bearing on the History o f Russia
and Published in Russia, three volum es, N ovgorod, 1 9 1 2 ; Elie
de C yon, Contemporary Russia, Moscow, 18 9 2 ; Jeh an -P reval,
Anarchie et nihilisme, Paris, 1892 (there is reason to believe
that the m an behind this pseudonym is a certain R. Y a.
R achkovsky); W illiam M akepeace T h ackeray, Vanity F a ir: A
N ovel without a Hero, Tauchnitz edition, Leipzig (no date);
N . I. G rech , Notes about My L ife, published by A lexei Surovin,
St. P etersburg (no date); E ugene-M elchior de V ogu e, Les
Grands Maitres de la litterature russe (volum es 5 5, 56, and 64),
Paris, 18 8 4 ; Field Notes o f a Russian Officer, published by Ivan
Lazhechnikov, Moscow, 18 3 6 ; Transactions o f the Free Economic
Society fo r the Development o f Agriculture in Russia, St. Peters­
b u rg, 1 8 1 4 ; Letters o f N . V. Gogol, in S h en ro k’s edition, Moscow
(no date); D. I. Zavalishin, Notes o f a Decembrist, St. Petersburg,
19 06 (inscribed by the au thor to Ippolit Nikolaevich Belo-
gortsev); and finally a cheaply bound book with no title page.
(T h e read er will, I trust, easily identify which books in
the list are part o f the fam ily patrim ony— the books bound
in leather— and which are m ore recent acquisitions and
th erefo re likely to afford som e insight into the intellectual
profile o f their ow ner, a form er O khrana officer about whom
little is otherw ise known.)

[ 10 ]

A fte r leafin g through all the books— not without curiosity

and a kind o f m etaphysical trepidation (“ W hat will rem ain
o f us, gentlem en? Love letters.” “ A n d unpaid hotel bills” )—

152 •
X placed them back in the suitcase, which sm elled o f new
boots and lavender, but then picked up the book without a
title page. (I can picture him squatting by the suitcase, holding
the book up to the lam p.) F or a while he turned it this way
and that. T h e n he brough t it up to his nose. (H e loved the
smell o f old books.) O n the book’s spine he discovered a w ord
printed in tiny letters. A t first he took it fo r the title o f a
novel. O n page 9 he cam e across an idea o f M achiavelli’s—
o r an idea attributed to M achiavelli— that roused his curiosity:
“States have two sorts o f enemies: internal and external. What arms
do they use when at war against external enemies? Do the generals
o f two warring states exchange plans o f action so as to enable the
enemy to put up stout resistance? Do they refrain from night raids,
from ruses and ambushes and battles launched with numerically su­
perior troops? A nd you refuse to make use o f their tricks, traps, and
snares, their indispensable wartime strategies, you refuse to make use
o f them against the internal enemy, the disrupters o f law and order?”
A ll at once X saw swirls o f snow. His m ind had w andered
fa r fro m the hotel room .
“The principle o f national sovereignty”— now his curiosity
was really piqued— “destroys all semblance o f order; it legitimizes
a society's right to revolution and thrusts it into open war against
power, against God Himself. The principle o f national sovereignty is
the incarnation o f might; it turns the people into a bloodthirsty beast,
which, once it has had its fill o f blood, fa lls sound asleep and can
easily be enchained.”
In the balm y M editerranean night outside his window X
saw h u ge snowflakes sw irling past; in the quiet Istanbul night
he heard the neigh ing o f Cossack horses. T h e n he saw an
officer low erin g a book to his side fo r a m om ent, m arking
the place with his in d ex finger. (“T h at, gentlem en, is the kind
o f m orals they p reach .” ) In the break that follow ed, the officer’s

* ! 53 ’
o rd erly brushed the snow o ff the tent flap with his hand. Mr.
X felt the snow slide onto the sleeve o f his greatcoat. His
h an gover was suddenly gone. T h e scene now seem ed rem oved
from him , part o f a distant past: huddled together by the
fire in a go d forsaken T ran scarp ath ian valley, the m en had
listened to their officer read to them about a perfidious
conspiracy against Russia, the T sa r, and the status quo. T h e
officer in question was an artillery colonel by the nam e o f
S ergei N ikolaevich D ragom irov. T h e book from which he
read that day to his m en had now, after D ragom irov’s glorious
end (at the siege o f Y ekaterin bu rg), m ade its way back to X .
S u d d en ly suspicious, X went and found the book Sergei
N ikolaevich D ragom irov had left him in his will. It was (as
the rea d er will have guessed) N ilus’s Antichrist. D ragom irov
believed in that book as he believed in the H oly Scriptures.
(X had spent a good m any nights with him— m ay he rest in
peace— talking about Russia, G od, revolution, about death,
about w om en, about horses and artillery.) T h o u g h carted
about in knapsacks, read and reread, the book retained
som ething o f its original deluxe-edition splendor. Its yellowed
pages bore traces o f the nail m arks and fingerprints o f its
fo rm er ow ner— most likely the only earthly traces left o f him.
X com pared the two books. At the very beginning o f the
anonym ous w ork he discovered a passage that again seem ed
som ehow fam iliar: “ What serves to bridle those beasts who devour
one another and who are called men?” he read. At the dawn o f
the social order it is crude, untrammeled might; later it is law. But
law is merely might regulated by juridical formulae. Might always
precedes right.”
In the other book, N ilus’s Antichrist, an ap p en d ix entitled
“ T h e C o n sp iracy” contained the follow ing nail-m arked pas­
sage (he could alm ost hear the late D ragom irov’s sonorous
voice): “ What has bridled those bloodthirsty beasts called men? What

1 54 ‘
has guided them even to the present day ? At the dawn o f the social
order, they lived by crude, mindless might; later they submitted to law,
which is also might, though masked. I therefore conclude that, ac­
cording to the law o f nature, right resides in might.” (“ T h at, gentle­
m en, is the kind o f m orals they p reach .” )
Despite his innate m odesty, which G raves, too, acknowl­
edges, I subm it that X (the d egrad in g initial is m erely a sign
o f extrem e discretion) was aw are o f the true significance o f
his discovery. In the book o f unknow n authorship he had
discovered the secret source o f The Conspiracy, which fo r two
decades had inflam ed m inds and sown seeds o f suspicion,
hatred, and death, but, m ore im portant, he had rem oved the
terrible threat h angin g over the people whom the book
designates as conspirators. (At this point the wild look o f a
youn g girl som ew here in O dessa flashed befo re his eyes. H er
head rested on a w ardrobe door torn from its hinges— she
had tried to hide in the w ardrobe— and she lay there stone­
like, though still breathing. In the m irror— as in a quotation—
one could see m utilated bodies, scattered pieces o f furn itu re,
broken m irrors, sam ovars, and lam ps, linen, clothing, m at­
tresses, slashed quilts. T h e road was deep in snow: eiderdow n
feathers everyw here— even the trees w ere covered with them.)
O n the other hand— and this was im portant only fo r him,
fo r his soul— at last he had final and incontrovertible p ro o f
against the theses o f Colonel D ragom irov (belated proof,
needless to say) and in support o f his own doubts as to the
existence o f a secret international conspiracy. “ Besides the
B olshevist one, which has long since been fa r from secret. . .
Incidentally, you are aw are that by o rd er o f G en eral Denikin
I conducted an investigation to ascertain w hether Russia was
harb orin g a secret conspiratorial group like the one described
by N ilus. W ell, gentlem en, the only secret organization we
un covered was an organization whose goal was to return the

‘ ! 55 *
Rom anovs to pow er! . . . N o protests, please. We have official
reports on it, with statements by witnesses . . . Yes. A ny
R om anovs at all . . . O ne day, gentlem en, I arrived ju st after
the conspirators had received their punishm ent. T h e scene
persists in my m em ory like an open sore . . . Colonel, if your
conspirators look like that girl . . .”— Let him finish! A little
tolerance, gentlem en!— “ . . . and if that is the price Russia
m ust pay . . .” Shouts o f indignation, a distant chorus o f
raucous m ale voices interrupts his words and m em ories. (“ It’s
time to go to sleep, gentlem en. W e’ve got a hard day ahead
o f us tom orrow . . . Gentlem en, may I point out that it’s
alread y getting light.” )
B y the time X had shut the book, now heavily u n d e r­
lined and full o f m arginal notes, the sun was com ing up.
T ire d as he was, he could not fall asleep. He waited until ten
o ’clock and put a call through to G raves, the local Times
correspon dent.

[ii]

In A u gu st 19 2 1 The Times o f Lon don — the very pap er which

less than a year befo re had w ondered how The Conspiracy
“ could have been so prophetic as to have foretold all this,”
and a p ap er with wisdom enough to contradict itself—
published an article by its Constantinople correspondent,
Philip G raves. G raves respected the desire o f his source to
rem ain anonym ous. (T hus, as we have m entioned, one o f the
chance but nonetheless im portant figures in the affair will
fo rev er be designated as X.) All G raves revealed was the
m an ’s social backgroun d : Russian O rthodox, constitutional
m onarchist, anti-Bolshevik, ord erly to D ragom irov, artillery
colonel. Skip p in g over the unim portant initial telephone call,

156
G raves sum m ed up fo r his readers the content o f the con­
versation the two m en had in the bar o f the Hotel Royal (the
one in the center o f town), a conversation that lasted from
five in the aftern oon to ten at night: “ A fo rm er officer in the
T sarist secret police, now a refu g ee in Constantinople, has
recently been reduced to selling a collection o f rare books.
T h e lot includes a cheaply bound 5^2 X 3^2 volum e in French
with no title page. A single w ord, Jo ly , is im printed on its
spine, and the preface, or ‘Sim ple A vertissem ent,’ bears the
dateline G en eva, 15 O ctober 1864. Both p ap er and typeface
fit the p eriod in question. T h e reason we include such details
is that we believe they will help in discovering the title o f the
w ork . . . Its fo rm er ow ner, the onetim e O khrana officer,
does not recall how the book cam e into his possession; n or
did he ever attach particular im portance to it. T h e new
ow ner, X , believes it to be extrem ely rare. W hile leafing
throu gh it one day, he was struck by the sim ilarity o f certain
o f its passages and a n um ber o f form ulations in the notorious
Conspiracy. A fte r com parin g the works m ore extensively, he
has com e to the conclusion that The Conspiracy is largely a
p arap h rase o f the G en eva original.”

[ 12]

T w o books— N ilus’s, which served to recruit hordes o f fanatics

and exacted the bloodiest o f sacrifices, and another, itself a
sacrifice, anonym ous, one o f a kind, an orp h an am ong
books— two contradictory products o f the hum an m ind, so
sim ilar and so d ifferen t, lay fo r almost sixty years separated
by the cabalistic distance (and I trem ble as I w rite the w ord
“ cabalistic” ) o f fo u r letters o f the alphabet. A n d w hereas the
fo rm er w ould leave the long, d ark rows o f shelves (its

• 157 •
poisonous breath m ingling with the breath o f its readers, its
m argins b earin g the traces o f their encounters, o f revela­
tions— w hen a read er discovered in the thought o f another
the reflection o f his own suspicions, his own secret thought),
the latter lay covered with dust, a dead, unw anted object,
kept there not fo r its thought or spirit but sim ply as a book,
the kind that m akes the read er who runs across it w onder
w hether anyone has ever opened it before him and w hether
anyone will ever, to the end o f time, reach fo r it again, the
kind that falls into a rea d er’s warm hands only by chance, by
m istake (either he has jotted dow n the w ron g sh elf num ber
o r the librarian has m isread it), leaving the read er to contem ­
plate the vanity o f all hum an effort, including his own: he
was looking fo r som ething else, poetry o r a novel, Rom an
law o r a p ap er on ichthyology, heaven knows what, but
som ething which at the time at least seem ed m ore lasting,
less futile than that dusty book with its m usty odor, its yel­
lowed pages m ore affected by the years o f dank air than those
o f other books because its dust has turned to dry rot, the
ashes o f oblivion, an urn o f dead thought.
T h u s m uses the p rodigal reader.
W hen chance, fate, and time meet in a favorable con­
stellation, their point o f intersection shall fall on that book
and, like a sunbeam , illum inate it “ with a great light” and
save it from oblivion.

[ 13 ]
O ne day two jou rn alists with hats pulled down over their
eyes like detectives and a letter from G raves in one pocket
paid a visit to the British M useum . T h e y had no trouble

• i 5 8 -
w hatsoever locating the book they w ere after, u n der the
au th or’s nam e: Jo ly . T h u s, the m ysterious source o f The
Conspiracy (written in H ebrew , according to M adam e Shish-
m aryova, in the hand o f A sh er Ginzberg, or, according to
Prince Zhevakhov, taken down w ord fo r w ord from the Evil
O n e’s dictation) had after m any long years com e to light.
T h e book, which the “ sham eless vultures,” as Delevsky
calls them , used fo r their own vile designs— A Dialogue in H ell
Between Montesquieu and Machiavelli, or MachiavelWs Politics in
the Nineteenth Century, Written by a Contemporary— is doubtless,
as Rollin says, one o f the best textbooks ever com posed fo r
m odern dictators or anybody aspiring to be one; and accord­
ing to N orm an C ohn it heralds with merciless lucidity the
varieties o f twentieth-century totalitarianism . “ B u t that, after
all, is a p oor kind o f im m ortality,” he adds.

[ 14 ]
T h e am ount o f time it takes fo r m an’s earthly rem ains to
retu rn com pletely to dust (an issue that occupied Flaubert, if
one m ay take him at his w ord, fo r purely literary reasons) is
calculated d ifferen tly by differen t parties, and ranges from
fifteen m onths to forty years. In any case, by the time G raves
discovered M aurice Jo ly ’s book and resurrected it from the
dead, the bones o f its author had u n d ergon e carbonization
an d m erged with earth and m ire: he had been dead almost
forty-five years.
M aurice Jo ly , the son o f a m unicipal councilor and an
Italian w om an by the nam e o f Florentina C orbara, was
adm itted to the bar in 18 5 9 . In an autobiographical sketch,
he gives an account o f the Dialogue's origins: “ F or a year I

* 159 *
contem plated a book that would dem onstrate the terrible
buffets and blows delivered by the E m p ire’s legislation to all
areas u n d er its adm inistration, destroying political freedom
on every level. I decided that the French would never read
so harsh a text. I th erefo re sought to p ou r my study into a
m old suitable to o u r sarcastic turn o f m ind, which since the
com ing o f the E m p ire had been forced to conceal its barbs
. . . Presently I recalled the im pression m ade upon me by a
book known only to a small num ber o f cognoscenti, the
Dialogues sur le commerce des bles, by the Abbot Galiani. It put
me in m ind o f setting up a dialogue between people living
o r dead on the topic o f contem porary politics. O ne evening,
while strolling along the river near the Pont Royal, I had an
idea; nam ely, that M ontesquieu could easily be m ade to
p erson ify one o f the thoughts I wished to express. But who
would be a p ro p er interlocutor for him? T h e answ er came
to me in a flash: M achiavelli! M ontesquieu would represent
the rule o f law, while M achiavelli would represen t N ap o ­
leon I II and expatiate upon his heinous politics.”
T h e Dialogue aux enfers entre M achiavel et Montesquieu m ade
its way into France in hay wagons (the peasant sm uggler
thought the card board boxes he was transporting contained
contraband tobacco), the intention being that the book be
distributed throu ghout the country by m en who despised
tyranny. B u t since men p refer the certainty o f servitude to
the uncertainty that com es o f change, the first man to open
the book (apparently a m odest postal clerk and syndicaliste
actif) listened in on the dialogue in the nether regions,
recognized the allusion to the ruler, and flu n g the book as
fa r as he could, “ with terro r and disgust.” H opin g for a
prom otion, he rep orted the incident to the police. W hen the
gend arm es opened the boxes o f books, the am azed tobacco

1 60 •
sm uggler swore with absolute indignation that som eone would
pay fo r this. A ccord in g to the inspector o f police, not a single
copy was m issing. A s certain m edieval associations have given
book b u rn in g a bad, even barbaric nam e, the books w ere
taken well outside the town to the banks o f the Seine, w here
they w ere doused in acid.
M aurice Jo ly was brought to trial on A p ril 25, 18 6 5.
Because o f the sp ring rains and a certain silence on the part
o f the press, only a few chance curiosity-seekers w ere in
attendance. B y o rd e r o f the court, the book was banned and
confiscated and Jo ly fined two hu n dred francs (the cost o f
the acid and labor) and sentenced— “ fo r incitem ent to hatred
and scorn o f the E m p ero r and His Im perial reig n ”— to fifteen
years in prison. Stigm atized as an anarchist, rejected by his
frien d s, un yielding, yet aw are that the w orld would not be
set righ t by books, he took it upon him self early one Ju ly
m orn in g in 18 7 7 to put a bullet through his head. “ H e
deserved a better fate,” says N orm an Cohn. “ H e had a fine
intuition fo r the forces which, gathering strength after his
death, w ere to produ ce the political cataclysms o f the present
cen tury.”

[ 15 ]
O w ing to an instance o f “ obnoxious m anipulation” (in Delev-
sky’s w ords), a pam phlet aim ed against tyranny and the
am ateu r despot N apoleon I I I becam e a clandestine program
fo r w orld dom ination: The Conspiracy. T h e cynical forgers,
trusting the police report, assum ed that the sulfuric acid had
destroyed all copies o f Jo ly ’s book (except fo r the one they
had, heaven knows how, m anaged to procure). C h an ge a few

161 •
w ords, ad d a pejorative rem ark o r two about Christians, take
away the venom ously ironic sting o f J o ly ’s fantasies (ascribed
to M achiavelli in the text) and divorce them from the historical
context— and you have the infam ous Conspiracy.
A com parison o f the two texts confirm s without a doubt
that The Conspiracy is a fo rg e ry and thus that there is no such
thing as a p rogram form ulated by a “ m ysterious, dark, and
dan gerou s force which holds the key to m any a troubling
en igm a.” T h e Times's sensational discovery, m ade public
u n d er the headline “ Final B rak e on C onsp iracy,” should,
logically, have put an end to the entire long and harrow ing
affair, which had corru p ted m any m inds and cost m any lives.
T h e quest fo r the p erpetrators o f the crim inal act and
fo r the m otives that led them to commit it did not begin until
som e twenty years after the events. B y then, most o f the
participants w ere dead and Russia was cut o ff from the world.
Nilus (Father Sergei) conducted a carefu l investigation in
m onastery archives.*
T h e search fo r the sources o f The Conspiracy constitutes
a special chapter in what is a fascinating and com plex novel.

*Nilus sought the diary o f a hermit who, according to Zhevakhov, described

the afterlife with extraordinary realism: “T h e author o f the diary does not
confine himself to throwing light on events o f the distant past and predicting
events to come; he also affords his readers a picture o f the otherworld with
a realism that goes beyond intuition to personal, God-given revelations. I
recall his tale about the young man who, cursed by his mother, was seized
by a mysterious power [nevedomaya sila] and hurled from earth into the void,
where he spent forty days living the life o f a spirit, in full accordance with
the laws that govern them. T h e story, which contains so much extraordinary
material that all possibility o f invention or fantasy must be ruled out,
represents yet another piece o f evidence in favor o f the existence o f life
after death and o f the life o f spirits” (Prince N. D. Zhevakhov, S. A. Nilus.
K ratkii ocherk zhizni i deiatelnosti [S. A . Nilus: A Short Sketch o f His Life and
Work], Novi Sad, 1936).

162*
(T h e w ord “ novel” m akes its second appearan ce here and is
m eant to be taken in its full and p ro p er m eaning. O nly the
principle o f econom y keeps this tale, which is no m ore than
a parable o f evil, from assum ing the w ondrous dim ensions
o f a novel with a chain o f events stretching endlessly across
the im m ense land mass o f E u rop e, to the U rals and beyond,
to both A m ericas, with untold protagonists and millions o f
corpses, against a terrifyin g backdrop.) T h e present chapter
m ight be com pressed— like the digest sum m aries that reduce
great w orks to their plots— into the follow ing m iserably
schem atic and bare outline:
The Conspiracy, or The Roots o f the Disintegration o f European
Society originated som ew here in France (as K rushevan first
claim ed) in the last years o f the nineteenth century, at the
height o f the D reyfus A ffair, which divided France into two
op p osin g cam ps. T h e text, riddled with typically Slavic erro rs
and stylistic infelicities (and fam ous fo r an enorm ous fro n t­
p age inkblot, a blot resem bling the “ A ntichrist’s seal o f
b lood ” ), shows the au thor o f the fo rg e ry to have been a
Russian. B u rtsev says that, ju st as all roads lead to Rom e, all
evidence concerning the origins o f the first version o f The
Conspiracy (the one that sham elessly plu n dered and distorted
Jo ly ’s book) leads to a certain Rachkovsky— “ the talented and
ill-fated R achkovsky”— ch ie f o f the Russian secret police in
Paris. T h is Rachkovsky, N ilus m aintains, was a selfless cru ­
sader against all earthly Satanic sects and “ did a great deal
to trim the claws o f C h rist’s enem ies.” A m an by the nam e
o f Papus, w ho had occasion to com e into close contact with
him , portrays Rachkovsky in a m anner rem iniscent o f the
Sym bolists— and not ju s t in his use o f capital letters: “ Should
you en coun ter him out in the W orld, I doubt you would
h arb o r the least suspicion on his account, fo r his Beh avio r is

• 163 •
in no wise revelatory o f his m ysterious dealings. H e is large,
energetic, always sm iling, and has a horseshoe beard and
lively eyes— m ore m erry-an drew than Russian Corinthian.
Despite a m arked w eakness for les petites Parisiennes, he is
doubtless the most skillful O rganizer in all the T e n E urop ean
C apitals” (L ’Echo de Paris, N ovem ber 2 1 , 19 0 1). B aron
T a u b e — who som e ten years after the R evolution wrote a
book entitled Russian Politics, in an attem pt to explain, p ri­
m arily to him self, the why and w h erefo re o f the E m p ire’s
dow nfall and to docum ent the m ajor role played by the secret
police in the events— also had the opportunity to m ake his
acquaintance. “ Not even his ingratiating m anner and sophis­
ticated way with words— he was like an outsize tomcat which
p rud ently hid its claws— could stifle fo r m ore than a moment
the basic im age I had o f him as a man o f keen intellect,
un b en d ing will, and deep devotion to the interests o f T sarist
R ussia.”
T h e bio grap h y o f this man o f unbending will is to some
extent typical: shifts from left to right or right to left along
the ideological spectrum are now a com m onplace o f E urop ean
intellectual life, as is the conviction that the dialectics o f
hum an d evelopm ent knows no constant. In his youth Rach-
kovsky belonged to secret student groups that read banned
books and m anifestos in hushed voices and carried on secret
conversations and secret love affairs, basking in the light o f
a vague fu tu re “ whose only program was the rom anticism o f
revolution .” With his cap pulled down over his foreh ead at
a ja u n ty angle, he w ould pass through secret passageways
into d ark cellars reeking o f p rin ter’s ink and specializing in
sang de boeuf—colored pam phlets and false identity papers
with the most im aginative o f nam es. It was a life full o f traps,
d an gers, and thrills, when a password bought overnight shel­

164 *
ter fo r a gro u p o f strangers, m en with heavy beards and
blue-blooded girls with unladylike revolvers in their m uffs.
D u rin g that w inter o f 18 7 9 , one ° f the heavy-bearded, fiery-
eyed m en who spent the night there sm oking in the dark
in fo rm ed on his fellow plotters, “ after com ing to doubt the
necessity o f planting a bom b in a parish chu rch.” Rachkovsky,
who had let his indecisive com rade in on the fact that one o f
G en eral D ren tel’s assassins had slept in his bed two nights
befo re, soon fou n d him self in the hands o f the T h ird Section.
T h e result was a scene w orthy o f Dostoevsky. T h e state
prosecutor, having sized up the personality o f the accused,
im m ediately cam e up with the follow ing proposition: M r.
R achkovsky could either agree to cooperate with the police
(“ A n d , after all, golubchik ty moi mily, the police are no less
devoted to the cause o f Russia than are the revolutionaries” )
o r . . . R achkovsky did not take long to m ake up his mind.
Forced to choose between exile in Siberia (“ Siberia, ogurchik
ty moi, Siberia is rom antic even in Dostoevsky, isn’t it, now?
B u t read in g about it u n d er a w arm quilt, if you don ’t m ind
m y saying so, m akes it seem a bit too tame and, how shall I
put it, cozy” ) and a trip to Paris (“ a nice little change o f scene,
dushenka moya” ), he chose the latter. A s one o f his contem ­
poraries has observed, Rachkovsky’s eloquence, his “ way with
w ord s,” burst forth on that Feb ru ary day in 18 7 9 w hen he
accepted the prosecu tor’s proposition. “ T h is was his first
fo rg e ry, this im itation o f the prosecutor, this incredible
sham .”
T h e w ay stations now speed past as i f fram ed by a train
window. Less than fo u r years after his arrest (and one stint
in prison by mistake), Rachkovsky becom es assistant to the
P etersburg D irector o f State Security, and the very next year
he is nam ed C h ie f o f A ll Secret Services, with headquarters

• 165-
in Paris. T h e netw ork he has spun spreads across the m ap
o f E u ro p e in a pattern that at first appears confused but
grad u ally reveals an architectonic perfection: P a ris-G e n e v a -
L on d o n —B erlin . O ne branch (carefully traced on the m ap in
his room ) stretches beyond the Carpathians to Moscow and
P etersburg— “ like an aorta leading to the heart o f the m atter,”
as one nostalgic con tem porary noted.
Late in 18 9 0 — thanks to flattery, bribery, espionage, and
brains (as well as dinners “ w here the cham pagne flowed like
w ater and the guests chattered like m agpies” )— Rachkovsky
uncovers a secret revolutionary organization that is m an u fac­
turin g bom bs in a locksm ith’s shop on the outskirts o f Paris.
T h e bombs are destined fo r terrorists in Russia. Rachkovsky,
thus, hands over sixty-three would-be assassins to the T h ird
Section fo r transport to Siberia. M ore than twenty years
passed (by which time the Siberian convicts w ere dyin g o ff
one by one) befo re B urtsev discovered it was all a fram e-up:
the bombs had been m ade by R achkovsky’s henchm en, the
locksm ith’s shop registered in the nam e o f one o f his French
con federates.
It was the golden age o f anarchists and nihilists, says
N orm an C ohn , and hom em ade bombs were all the rage in
both E u ro p e and Russia. T o d a y we know for certain that the
“ hidden G o d ” behind the m ajority o f the assassination at­
tempts (like the nail-filled bomb that went o ff in the C h am ber
o f D eputies, or the m ore d angerou s explosion in Liege) was
none other than o u r m erry-an drew Rachkovsky. Rachkovsky
was obsessed with the idea o f instilling a spirit o f doubt in
E u ro p e and thereby b rin gin g it closer to Russia. “ N ever
satisfied with his jo b as a security chief, he tried to influence
the course o f international affairs.” T h e prodigality o f his
am bitions was m atched only by the paucity o f his scruples.

166 •
 [ 16 ]

With u n errin g intelligence, Rachkovsky soon perceived that

the effect o f bom b throw ing was relative: when the m urders
w ere senseless o r less than clearly m otivated, the public shut
its eyes tight, as i f frighten ed by a strong bolt o f lightning
and determ in ed to forget about it as quickly as possible.
E xp erien ce taught him that political intrigue could trigger
explosions with a detonation force greater than any bomb.
P eople w ere w illing to believe w hatever they w ere told,
especially people who ap p eared to be m orally unblem ished.
(T h e corru p t cannot im agine people d ifferen t from them ­
selves; they can only im agine people who have succeeded in
hidin g their true natures.) “ B e fo re you prove a slander false,
dushenka moya, a lot o f w ater will have flowed u n d er the Sein e’s
b rid g es.” His biograp hers state that he began w riting an on ­
ym ous letters while a secondary-school student, ad dressing
them to teachers, frien ds, parents, and him self. Now, in his
new capacity, he recalled the disastrous effects o f that youthful
pastim e, an d having both m oney and a p rinting press at his
disposal, he took to publishing the “ confessions” o f fo rm er
revolution aries— their road to disenchantm ent— in pam phlet
form and rep lyin g to the pam phlets h im self u n d er a p seu­
donym . T h e confusion he thus caused was diabolical.
O nce, having ju st published a pam phlet signed “ P. Iv a ­
n ov,” R achkovsky gave a potential collaborator this account
o f the m echanics o f slander and its pow er: “ W hile you w arm
y o u r fron t, golubchik, yo u r backside gets cold. It’s like sitting
aro u n d a cam pfire: you always have one flank, so to speak,
exposed . N ow there are two ways to protect yo u rse lf (nobody’s
com e u p with a third), and both are ineffective: either you
keep y o u r m outh shut and assum e nobody’s going to take

• 167 *
the lies about you seriously— even if they are in print— or
you get so indignant that you answ er back. In the first
instance people will say, ‘H e’s keepin g his m outh shut because
h e’s got nothing to say in his d efen se,’ and in the second,
‘H e’s d efen d in g him self because he feels guilty. H e w ouldn’t
take the trouble if his conscience w ere clear.’ Sland er, ogurchik
moi mily, spreads like the French disease.” (T h e French disease
was quite the thing at the time.)

[ 17 ]
T h e fo rged version o f Jo ly ’s Dialogue in H ell, fabricated in
“ R achkovsky’s studio,” fell with am azing speed into N ilus’s
hands. “ T h e m eeting o f these two minds, these two fanatics,
was inevitable,” a contem porary rem arked. “ T h e only d iffe r­
ence between them was that Nilus was m ad and mystical
en ough to believe in The Conspiracy as he believed in the Lives
o f the Saints.” T h e m anuscript reached him indirectly, via a
M adam e Y. M. G linka, who held seances in Paris and spied
on Russian terrorists in exile. She later claim ed her due in a
confession to a n ew spaper rep orter, but since she also claim ed
to m aintain ties with the otherw orld and be in direct com ­
m unication with deceased m em bers o f the T s a r ’s fam ily, the
rep o rter was rather skeptical about her allegation. Y et the
fact rem ains that she was the one who delivered a copy to
K rush evan , who first published it in his new spaper, whence,
as we have seen, it cam e into N ilus’s hands.
T h e rum ors set in motion by this “ m asterpiece o f slan der”
sp read throu ghout the w orld at a velocity known only to
m alicious hearsay and the French disease, racing from the
continent to the British Isles, then on to A m erica, and even,

168 •
on the return voyage, to the Lan d o f the R ising Sun. O wing
to its m ysterious origins and the need people have to give
history a m eaning in ou r godless w orld, The Conspiracy soon
becam e a kind o f bible, teaching that there is a “ m ysterious,
d ark, and dangerous fo rce” lurkin g behind all history’s
defeats, a force that holds the fate o f the w orld in its hands,
draw s on arcane sources o f pow er, triggers wars and riots,
revolutions and dictatorships— the “ source o f all evil.” T h e
Fren ch Revolution, the Panam a Canal, the L eagu e o f Nations,
the T re a ty o f V ersailles, the W eim ar Republic, the Paris
m etro— they are all its doing. (By the way, m etros are noth­
in g but m ineshafts u n d er city walls, a m eans fo r blasting
E u ro p ean capitals to the skies.) From the treasury o f its
“ irresponsible and occult organization” comes fu n d in g fo r
such adversaries o f law and faith as V oltaire, Rousseau,
Tolstoy, W ilson, Loubet, Clem enceau, E d u ard Scham , and
L ev D avidovich Bronstein. A m o n g those who have fallen
p rey to its intrigues are T sa r A lex an d er II, G en eral Selivyor-
stov, and A rch d u k e Ferdin and. Its m em bers, the executors
o f its will, include M achiavelli, M arx, K erensky, B . D. Novsky,
and M aurice Jo ly h im self (a pseudonym , an an agram in fact,
whose origins are easily decipherable from the nam e
M aurice).

[ 18 ]
T h e m ost com plete and best-known edition o f The Conspiracy
is surely the four-volum e one that ap p eared in Paris in the
twenties. M on seign eu r Ju n iu s devoted seven years o f w ork
to it, finishing the project at the age o f eighty-two. It is the
w ork o f a scholar, fanatic, and polyglot who did not hesitate

• 169 •
to delve into the Slavic languages, “ exceptionally difficult and
o f no great im m ediate benefit,” as one o f his biograp hers has
observed. It brings together everything known on the subject
and includes a com parison o f the French translation with the
Russian, G erm an, and Polish, indeed, o f each with all the
others, pointing out niggling linguistic differen ces, a great
m any slips— lapsus mentis and lapsus calami— as well as flagrant
typographical erro rs in earlier editions, erro rs that som etim es
alter the sense o f the original substantially; it also contains
biblical analogies, which unequivocally condem n the scandal­
ous authors o f this scandalous book. (“ For their hand was
not guid ed by the hand o f m ercy.” )
N or, it bears stating, w ere his labors in vain. E very
publisher o f The Conspiracy— and not ju st in France— every
serious publisher who was after m ore than cheap fam e or easy
m oney now referred to M onseigneur Ju n iu s ’s four-volum e
edition on all questions o f scholarship. (It is highly probable
that A . T o m ic m ade use o f M onseigneur Ju n iu s ’s w ork fo r
his version, which ap p eared as The True Foundations in Split
in 19 2 9 , as did the anonym ous com m entator who signed
h im self Patrioticus and whose translation ap p eared in B e l­
grad e five years later u n der the unam biguous title Undermin­
ing Humanity.)
In G erm an y, b e lief in the authenticity o f The Conspiracy
was “ unshakable, solid as a rock,” and the book m olded the
conscience and patriotic sentim ents o f several generations.
W hile the social-dem ocratic new spapers hotly denounced the
accusations m ade by the “ obscure” w ork, the segm ent o f the
press that tends to refrain from sp readin g dangerou s rum ors
opted fo r the other o f the two possible (“ equally ineffective” )
stances: it passed over the whole affair in silence, consider­
ing— especially in the wake o f the Times's discovery— all

• 170 *
fu rth er discussion unnecessary. In keeping with R achkovsky’s
psychological assessm ent o f the situation, the contradictions
in herent in the two stances led a then unknow n (as yet
unknown) am ateur painter to write that the very fact that
p eople persisted in trying to prove the book a fo rg e ry was
“ p ro o f o f its authenticity” (Mein Kampf). In the infam ous year
o f 19 3 3 , by which time the am ateur painter had becom e quite
well known, The Conspiracy ap p eared in m ore than thirty edi­
tions, and D er H am m er, its publishers, threw a cocktail party
to celebrate the sale o f the h u n d red thousandth copy.
T h e A m erican translation, based on N ilus’s version,
reached the half-m illion m ark around 19 2 5 , thanks in large
p art to a m ass-circulation new spaper ow ned by H enry Ford,
a m an with two lifelon g obsessions: the autom obile and secret
societies. In Latin A m erica the book foun d im m ediate and
lasting application in fierce intra- and in terparty squabbles
and becam e a handbook fo r fanatics, especially am ong the
G erm an population. T h e third Portuguese edition (Sao Paulo,
1 937» with a cru cifix and a three-headed serpent on the
cover) m ay be taken as standard: its editor follows Monsei-
g n eu r Ju n iu s. T h e sam e holds fo r Preziosi’s Italian version
o f the sam e year. T h e editorials provoked by the H u n garian
edition (19 4 4), which includes the woolly wisdom o f a certain
Laszlo E rn 6 , w ere directly responsible fo r a hunting rifle’s
bein g fired at the windows o f ou r house. (So, one m ight say,
the Conspiracy affair closely concerns me, too.)

[ 19 ]
T h e re are clear indications that The Conspiracy not only m ade
a d eep im pression on the am ateur painter who wrote the

171
in fam ous M ein K am pf but also influenced an anonym ous
G eo rgian sem inary student who was yet to be heard from. In
the flickering candlelight o f the long snow bound nights o f
Siberian exile, the w ords o f The Conspiracy must have affected
him m ore than the Gospels.
T h u s it was that a m anual written fo r the edification o f
a R enaissance prince— by way o f Jo ly ’s philosophical rein car­
nation and N ilu s’s distorting m irror— becam e a m anual fo r
con tem p orary despots. Several exam ples from Nilus, together
with their historical reflections, will dem onstrate why the text
has had so fatefu l an impact.
“M en with exnl instincts outnumber men with good instincts.
Governing by violence and terror therefore yields better results than
governing by academic argument. Every man aspires to power, every
man would like to be a dictator i f he could, yet fe w men are willing
to sacrifice the welfare o f all to their own personal welfare."— T h e
C onsp iracy, p. 2 16 .
O r: “Our right lies in might. The word ‘right’ is fraught with
responsibility, yet its meaning has never been determined. Where does
it begin ? Where does it end? In a state where power is poorly organized
and the ruler weak, sapped by a plethora o f liberally inspired laws,
I set down a new right— the right o f the stronger to attack and np
the existing order and its institutions to pieces. ”— p. 2 18 .*
T h e r e rem ains the com plex issue o f w hether the deed
precedes the w ord or w hether it is m erely a shadow o f the
w ord. A few quotations from The Conspiracy m ight lead us to
believe in the idealistic variant. T h e m oral that futu re tyrants
drew from the w ork has turned into ardent, steadfast practice.
“Our duty is to spread discord, strife, and animosity throughout

♦T h e grandiloquence o f this passage attests to the influence The Conspiracy

had on a doctor named Destouches, the author o f a pamphlet entitled
“ Bagatelles pour un massacre.”

172 *
Europe and thence to other continents. The benefit will be twofold:
first, we shall keep all democratic states at bay by proving we can
bring about their downfall or alter their social system at will; second,
we shall p u ll the strings in which we have enmeshed all governments
with our politics, economic treaties, and diplomatic obligations.”
— P- 235 -
N ever in the history o f ideas did a philosophy m eant fo r
a ru ler enjoy so loyal a follow ing or so practical a success.
“Politics has nothing in common with morality. A leader who
rules morally is not political and therefore has no business at the head
o f state . . . From the evil we are constrained to do at present will
come the good o f an intractable regime, the only regime suited to the
essence o f nationhood, so sadly undermined in this day and age by
liberalism . . . The end justifies the means. Let us therefore set aside
the good and moral and concentrate on the necessary and useful ”
— p. 2 18 .
“We must see to it that no more conspiracies rise against us. We
shall therefore punish mercilessly any armed opposition to our power.
A ll attempts to fou n d secret societies o f whatever nature will result in
the death penalty. We shall disband all societies which have served
us in the past and serve us still, and scatter their members among the
continents farthest from Europe . . . A nd to strip the halo o f honor
from political crimes, we shall put the culprits in the same dock as
thieves, murderers, and other such vile and common criminals, thereby
causing the public to associate political criminals with all others and
despise them as they do all others ”— p. 268.

[ 20]

In 19 4 2 , thirty-six years after K ru sh evan ’s articles first ap ­

peared in his Petersburg new spaper, a witness to the crim e
noted in his jo u rn a l: “ I cannot com prehend the ju d icial basis

• 173 •
fo r these m u rd ers— m en killing one another in the open, as
if on a stage.”
B u t the stage is real, as real as the corpses.
“ T h e y rem ain stan ding,” the un fortun ate K u rt Gerstein
w rote, “ like basalt pillars; they have no place to fall or lean.
Even in death, one can m ake out fam ilies holding hands. It
is hard to separate them when the room must be cleared fo r
the next load, blue bodies tossed out, soaked with sweat and
urine, legs stained with excrem ent and m enstrual blood. T w o
dozen w orkers check the m ouths, p ryin g them open with
iron levers; others check the anus and genitals, looking fo r
m oney, diam onds, gold. In the m iddle o f it all stands Captain
W irth . .
In the m iddle o f it all stands Captain W irth. A n d in the
u p p er left-hand pocket o f his tunic is a leather-bound copy
o f The Conspiracy published by D er H am m er in 19 3 3 . H e had
read som ew here that the book saved the life o f a youn g non­
com m issioned officer at the Russian front: a bullet fired from
a sn ip e r’s rifle lodged in the pages, ju st above his heart. T h e
book m akes him feel secure.

174 •
Red Stamps with Lenin’s Picture

Son g o f Songs 8:6

D e a r Sir,
In the course o f you r ru e M ichelet lecture you asked,
“ W hat has becom e o f M endel O sipovich’s correspondence?”
and stated that the Collected Works published by Chekhov
H ouse in N ew Y o rk m ust be considered incom plete, that the
correspon dence m ight one day be foun d and will not there­
fo re be lim ited to the twenty o r so letters rep rod u ced therein.
A fte r p ayin g tribute to the labors o f the tragically departed
Io s if Bezim ensky (“ It took thirty years o f research to pick up
the trail o f people who, though they had not lost their lives,
did lose their nam es, cities, countries, even continents” ), you
concluded there was still hope that the letters w ould surface
and “ the irrep arab le w ould be rep aired .”
I have been prom pted to write to you by yo u r unbeliev­
able— unbelievably audacious— conviction that the greater
p art o f the correspon dence still exists and that it is in the
hands o f an individual (I quote from m em ory) “who fo r
sentim ental reasons o r out o f certain other considerations
does not wish to part with these valuable docum ents.” It
n ever en tered my m ind to ask you then, at the lecture, what
it was that all o f a sudden— because you expressed no such

*177 *
notion two years ago, nor did you m ention anything o f the
sort in y o u r p reface— what it was that m ade you so certain
as to state, “ T h e individual in question, if luck is with us, may
still be alive som ew here in B erlin , Paris, or N ew Y o r k !” Y o u r
optim istic conclusion was doubtless based p rim arily on the
research o f the late Bezim ensky and on his archives, to which
you have had access.
T h e individual whom you seek, sir, “ the individual who
holds the key to the m ystery,” as you put it, was sitting several
feet from you at the lecture. O f course you do not rem em ber
her; no doubt you did not even see her. A n d if you had
h app en ed to notice her, you would have thought she was
one o f those w om en who com e to public lectures pretend ing
they want to learn som ething— so that they m ay depart for
the next w orld with their earthly obligations fulfilled and say
at the end o f the road that they did not live their lives in
darkness— but who in fact com e only to forget fo r a m om ent
their own loneliness, filled as it is with thoughts o f death, or
sim ply to see another hum an being.
Despite the solitude I live in, sir, I do not plague others
with my m em ories, which are peopled, like a huge graveyard ,
by the dead ; I do not freq uen t lectures, nor do I write letters
to stran gers and occupy my time waiting fo r replies. Y et G od
is my witness— as now you shall be, too— that I have written
a great m any letters in my life. A n d nearly all o f them were
addressed to one and the sam e person: M endel Osipovich.
Y o u , a connoisseur o f his w ork (it is not my intention to
point out you r biographical inaccuracies), have no need o f
lengthy explan ation s; you will easily find you r bearings.
In the poem with the puzzling title “ Stellar C annibalism ”
(Vol. I, p. 42), the “ m eeting o f two stars, two bein gs,” is by
no m eans the “ product o f a close collaboration between

178 •
preconscious and subconscious activity,” as Miss N ina Roth-
Sw anson w ould have it; it is a poetic transposition o f the
electric shock that ran through M endel O sipovich’s soul the
m om ent o u r eyes m et in the offices o f Russkie zapiski (he had
d ro p p ed in “ accidentally and fatally” ) in Paris on a gloom y
N ovem ber day in 19 2 2 . Likew ise, M .O. did not, as the
aforem en tion ed lady claims, “ hym n his frustration s” in the
em igre poem s; he had always been what he him self called,
though p erh aps not without a tinge o f irony, a “ poet o f
circum stance.”
I was twenty-three at the time . . . B u t I do not m atter,
I do not m atter in the least. Let us return to M endel O sipovich.
In the poem “ R evelation,” from the sam e cycle, the “ cannibal
stars” are n either “ subconscious fears connected with the
p oet’s origins and with exile” n or “ the transposition o f a
n igh tm are,” and least o f all “ totem s” ; they are the sim ple
fusion o f two im ages. O n the day we met, M endel Osipovich
happ en ed to have read an article in a popular-science m ag­
azine about stellar cannibalism , the phenom enon o f double,
extremely close stars (whence the line “ Stars that touch foreh eads
and chins” ) which swallow each other in clouds o f mist
som ew here on the fa r side o f the M ilky W ay. T h a t was the
first stim ulus. O ur m eeting was the second. T h e two events
m erged into a single im age. A n d since poets speak as p ro p h ­
ets, the poem about cannibal stars becam e prophetic: ou r
lives, sir, com m ingled cannibalistically.
I had o f course heard o f M endel O sipovich befo re I met
him : all Y id d ish speakers in Russia at the time— and not only
Y id d ish speakers— had heard o f M endel O sipovich. Like
every p ow erful, original personality, he was beset by rum ors:
he was m erely a cheap im itator o f A nsky, he had an illegit­
im ate child, he correspon ded with a fam ous G erm an actress,

179 '
he had had false teeth since the age o f eighteen (when a
jealo u s husband, a well-known Russian poet, had bashed in
his jaw ), he wrote his poem s in Russian first and then
translated them with his fath er’s help, he was p rep arin g to
m ove to Palestine, and so on. O nce I saw a portrait o f him
by Pyotr Rotov in the new spapers. I im m ediately cut it out
and pasted it in my d iary thinking, D ear G od, that’s what the
m an o f my life must look like! (Ah, the pathos o f ou r youth.)
A n d sud d en ly— d ear G o d !— there he was standing o p ­
posite me in the offices o f Russkie zapiski, staring at me. I put
m y hands u n d er the desk to keep him from seeing them
trem ble.
T h e next day he took me to d in n er at a Russian restaurant
in M ontparnasse. Since, according to a story circulating at
the time, M endel O sipovich, like B yron , felt utter contem pt
fo r w om en who ate in public, I ord ered nothing, hu n gry
though I was, but a cup o f unsw eetened tea. Later, o f course,
I told him o f the consequences o f the Byron ic anecdote. T h e
result was the fam ous “ anatom ical poem ,” as Bezim ensky calls
it, in which “ after a celebration o f the flesh, there appears,
like a kid glove turned inside out, the idealized quintessence
o f the internal organ s, not only the heart but also the lilac o f
the lungs and w indings o f the gu t.” It is th erefore a love
poem p ar excellence, not “ a series o f fantasies about the
m aternal u teru s” !
In a w ord, o u r love becam e “ inexorable and inescapable” ;
we realized that, in spite o f all im pedim ents, we had to jo in
o u r lives. I shall not go into the obstacles standing in ou r
w ay: fam ilies, clans, relatives, friends, the W riters’ O rgan i­
zation. A n d o f course that poor, sickly little girl, who was
always held up as a last argum ent.
A t his request I return ed to Russia and foun d w ork in

1 80 •
the M oscow offices o f Der Shtern. We could see each other
every day. I was always close by, i f not to say in his shadow.
T h e poem “ Sun Beneath a Pink Lam p sh ad e” is M endel
O sipovich’s ironic rep ly to a rem ark I m ade about this. (And
not “ an obsession with m enstrual blood,” fo r goodness’ sake!)
Y o u are aw are, sir, that M .O. was m arried at the time
and had a d au gh ter (or, as the estimable N ina Roth-Sw anson
w rites, “ M .O . had incarnated his youthful fantasies in the
p erson o f a w ife-m other” !). P ainful though it m ay be, I must
again rem in d you o f the fate o f that un fortun ate child, whom
Roth-Sw anson ignores, as i f the fact o f h er congenital illness
could cast a shadow on M endel O sipovich’s life.
F ar be it from m e to em end the arbitrary assessments
o f the critics, especially the analyses o f Miss N ina Roth-
Sw anson— I have the least right to do so and the greatest—
but there is one rem ark I feel I m ust m ake: N .R .-S., well
aw are o f the sickly girl’s existence, and out o f fem inine
sym pathy and, doubtless, a m aternal instinct (which is not
always relevant to critical assessment), interpets all poem s in
which the w ords mayn kind ap p ear as “ anguish relating to the
sanctions o f the sup erego and experien ced as a feeling o f
guilt” ! P oor M endel O sipovich w ould turn in his grave, could
he read those w ords. N ot only because o f their stunning
banality, though p rim arily fo r that reason, but also because
n ever, sir, did M .O . m ake the slightest allusion to that child
in his w orks: he w ould have considered it sacrilegious. /, sir,
am the “ sin ful p arthenogenesis” ; even though there was only
a seven-year d ifferen ce betw een us, / am the mayn kind o f his
poem s. So m uch fo r the “ in-depth analysis” o f N ina Roth-
Sw anson and h er endeavor, on the basis o f the novels The
Hounds and P illa r o f Salt as well as the Falling Star collection,
to suggest the absurd thesis o f love as incest, “ an attem pt to

• 181 •
violate taboos and experien ce catharsis as in a d ream ” ! I f you
d o n ’t m ind my saying so, the erudite Roth-Sw anson would
do well to spare M endel O sipovich her “ totems and taboos.”
N eed I tell you that M .O . often tried to break the bonds
that kept him fettered “ on a double chain, like an ch ors.” But
his u n fortu n ate d augh ter, with an intuition given only to
children and holy fools, was able to sense, the m om ent he
stood in the doorw ay, his resolve to pronounce the fateful
w ords he had recited on his way to her like a schoolboy on
the way to an exam . P ropped up on her pillows in bed, she
w ould turn her m ou rn fu l eyes to him and try to say som ething,
which always ended in a terrifyin g, beast-like growl. M .O.,
torn by rem orse, w ould sit down next to her, take her hand
in his, and, instead o f launching into his p rep ared speech,
bu ry his head in the lap o f his w edded wife. “ G od gave me
this child alon g with my gift to keep me from grow in g p ro u d ,”
he would repeat, sobbing.
C ru sh ed , he fled back to literature, to “ T h e Prom ised
L a n d .” (W hen I think o f the m isunderstandings and betrayals
that poem caused him!) T h e n he would m ake up his mind
to leave me. Like a sickly child or holy fool, I sensed his
intentions by the rin g o f the doorbell, the turn o f the key in
the lock. “ T h e re is no point in hu rtin g an ybod y,” he would
say. “ I have no right to love.” We parted m any times “ fo r
go o d ,” sn ap pin g ou r bonds like a silver thread, “ the pearls
rollin g over yellow ed, m uch scrubbed bo ard s” (in my M er-
zlyakov Street w alk-up apartm ent in Moscow), then fallin g
im m ediately— “ in exo rably”— back into each oth er’s arm s.
(T h e poem “ Lim bo” is nothing if not a response to those
rifts.)
In the en d — I say “ in the en d ,” fo r it took several years
o f su fferin g, o f rup tu res and separations— we realized that

182*
o u r lives w ere bound fo rev er and that ou r feeble hum an
pow ers w ere o f no avail against ou r love o r the obstacles in
its path. “ Such a love is born once every three hundred
y e a rs/’ M .O . w ould say. “ It is the fru it o f life, and life its only
ju d g e . L ife and d eath .” T h at, then, is the m eaning o f “ Lim bo,”
a poem which, incidentally, Miss N ina Roth-Sw anson’s com ­
m entary reduces to utter nonsense. (“ T h e im age o f the
stream , the river, in the context o f poetic speech, particularly
w hen om itted, suppressed, derives from the dream w ork o f the
unconscious, and in dream s, by association, a flowing river,
though invisible and m erely sensed— a ‘resonant abyss’—
suggests both the m u rm u r o f w ords and the splash o f u rin e.”
N ow w hat is that gibberish supposed to m ean?)
N o, M endel O sipovich n ever was m y husband, but he
was the m eanin g o f my life, ju st as I was the “ cure fo r his
g r ie f” (see the twin poem s “ T h e Prodigal S o n ” and “ G aea
an d A p h ro d ite ,” V ol. I l l , pp. 34 8 -5 0 ). O urs was a love that
need ed none o f the “ gluttonous jo y o f m ortals,” that needed
no p ro o f; it n ourished itself, consum ed itself, but with a
m utual flam e.
A n d once the “ time o f fiery ru p tu res” was past, we
becam e captives, hostages to each other, and the tem perature
cu rve o f o u r “beautiful disease” grew steadier. I lost all
“ d ignity,” the last vestige o f my upbrin ging. I no lon ger
expected him to be anything but there, constant and solid as
rock. I learn ed shorthand, the G u erin m ethod, with a few
additions o f m y own legible only to me. M .O. was at the peak
o f his fam e at the time, which is to say m uch esteem ed and
m uch challen ged; I was a youn g w om an and still beautiful,
a cause fo r m uch envy on the part o f those who knew ou r
secret. His feelings o f guilt, the constant gnaw ings o f his
conscience, died dow n at last. D u rin g ou r years together, a

• 183 •
“ time o f cruelty and tenderness,” M .O. did his best work. (As
fo r his biblical dram as, you must not forget, sir, that they
contain dan gerou s allusions o f the sort which, even if con­
signed to the draw er, could in those “ wolfish times” expose
an au th or to m ortal danger. R eadin g Miss N ina Roth-Swan-
son’s com m entaries— I ’m sorry, but I seem to keep bum ping
into h er as i f she w ere a w ardrobe planted in the m iddle o f
a room — and her interpretation o f Moses as the personifica­
tion o f “ repressed hatred fo r the rabbi- and tyrant-fath er,” I
w on d er w hether N ina R.-S. did not dream her way through
the years she spent in Russia “ beneath the cruel skies o f d ear
old M oses,” when instead o f practicing “ in-depth analysis”
she was a m odest translator and lecturer.) I personally typed
or copied out all M endel O sipovich’s w orks; I was, sir, the
m idw ife to his literary labors (see, for exam ple, the poem
“ She said: ‘A m e n ,’ ” Vol. II, p. 94). For years I kept a suitcase
packed, read y to leave at a word from him. I spent “ glorious
nights o f feral fev er” in provincial fleabags and rented room s.
I rem em ber— if I have the right to rem em ber— the excitem ent
we felt at ou r first m erging in a Baku hotel: o u r clothes hun g
together in the w ardrobe in lascivious intimacy. (I shall refrain
from com m enting on the interpretation Roth-Sw anson gives
the poem “ M erging Skin s,” overstepping, as it does, the
bounds o f decency and com m on sense.)
Y o u m ay ask, sir, what all this has to do with M endel
O sipovich’s oeuvre. Well, sir, I am the Polyhym nia in the
poem o f that nam e (and its significance becom es clear only
in the context o f o u r experiences). “ In my every line, my
every w ord, my every full stop I feel your presence like a
d ro p o f p ollen ,” M .O. used to say. “ Everythin g I have written,
even everythin g I have translated, bears your m ark .” He
translated the Son g o f Songs in 19 2 8 ; that is, at a time when

184*
the rifts betw een us belonged to the past. (Zanikovsky’s
contention that the translation is “ inaccurate” is ridiculous!
T h e liberties M .O. took are justified by his own personal
theory; there is no reason fo r Zanikovsky to b rin g in M .O .’s
fath er, “ the highly reg ard ed Y o s e f ben B ergelso n ,” and lay
the blam e on him. M .O. incorporated his own, personal
feelings into translations. “ H ow, aside from sheer need, could
I have d erived such pleasure from translation?” he replied
w hen I asked him about it. His versions o f Catullus, Petrarch’s
Canzoniere, and Shak esp eare’s sonnets, which he p rep ared
with the help o f the late Izirkov, m ust also be read in this
light.)
I shall pass over the historical events which like a harsh
landscape provid ed the backdrop to o u r lives. W hen I look
back, it all com es together in a m ixture o f snow, rain, and
m ud, in the “ unity o f intolerable frost.” B u t you m ay rest
assured, sir, that M endel O sipovich had nothing o f the stern
m ien his ascetic prose m ight suggest. T h e letters he wrote to
m e w ere as baroque as Flaubert’s; they spoke o f all the things
his poetry speaks o f—and o f things it does not: creative jo ys
and creative crises, innerm ost states, cities, hem orrhoids,
landscapes, reasons to com m it suicide and reasons to go on
living, the d ifferen ce between prose and poetry. His letters
com bined am orous sighs, erotic hints, literary theories, travel­
ogues, and fragm ents o f poetry. I still recall descriptions o f
a rose, o f a sunrise, variations on the them e o f bedbugs,
speculations on the probability o f life after death. I rem em ber
the description o f a tree, a simile in which the crickets beneath
a hotel w indow in the C rim ea chirp like wristwatches being
w ound, the etym ology o f a nam e, o f a city, the interpretation
o f a nightm are. T h e rest, everything else I can rem em ber,
was w ords o f love: pointers on how to dress fo r the w inter

• 185 •
o r com b m y hair, prayers, “ ard ent cooing,” and scenes o f
jealo u sy — u n fou n d ed , needless to say.
T h e n one day I received a letter. I need not tell you, sir,
what went on in the terrible year o f 1949, when every m em ber
o f the O rganization o f Y iddish W riters was liquidated. T h e
incident I am speaking o f occurred ju st p rior to those tragic
events. I received a letter m eant fo r another. Perhaps I ought
to have subjected my curiosity to the rules o f etiquette and
left it u n read , but that was too m uch to ask, especially since
my nam e in M endel O sipovich’s hand was on the envelope.
N o, it was not a love letter; it was about the sense, the m eaning
o f som e verse— advice to the youn g wom an who was trans­
lating M endel O sipovich’s poem s into Russian. B u t the letter
was perm eated with a certain am biguity, a m ixture o f “ D io­
nysian d eliriu m ” and “ incorrigible w ood-grouse p rid e” (to
quote from his verse itself). M endel O sipovich’s soul held no
secrets fo r me. I was certain, sir, and still am (if certainty is
not m ere consolation or self-justification) that an ordin ary
Liebesbrief would have hurt me less, shaken me less: I could
have forgiven him his “ Dionysian d elirium ” ; in the nam e o f
ou r love, o u r unique, unrivaled love, I believe I could have
fo rgiven him an infidelity o f the flesh— with poets as with the
gods, an yth ing is forgivable. B u t the fact that he wrote to the
youn g w om an about his poetry, his soul, the m ysterious
sources o f his inspiration; the fact that, in one am biguous
context p ro ffe red by the poetry itself, he shared with her
som ething I felt belonged to me alone, and to him, a kind o f
ju s primae noctis— that, sir, is what shattered me, shook my
very being, and put my erstwhile serenity to the test. All at
once, in a disturbance o f seismic proportions, the “ yellowed
b o ard s” open ed beneath my feet and I began to floun der as
one floun d ers in a nightm are. I realized that the only way I

186 •
could stop my headlong fall was by taking decisive action,
b reakin g a m irror, the lam p with the pink shade (that, too,
a gift from him), a Chinese teapot, o r a precious ther­
m om eter. O therw ise, I ’d have had to do som ething m uch
m ore terrible. T h e n it occurred to me: the letters.
Because his apartm ent had been searched several times,
M endel O sipovich had m oved ou r correspondence to mine.
“ I fum e at the idea o f faceless people poking their noses into
yo u r letters,” he told me. I had tied the letters together with
a black velvet ribbon he bought me when we first met. It
ap p ears in one o f his poem s, a poem in which enjam bm ent
stretches from line to line like a headband from tem ple to
tem ple. From the m om ent I cut the ribbon with a pair o f
scissors I had handy— I m ust have been intending to cut my
hair— my fall went into slow motion. A s soon as I tore the
first letter, I knew I could not retreat, and this despite the
realization ru n n in g through me like a knife that I w ould
reg ret m y action, that I already regretted it. O ur love was
now like a precious novel with pages m issing, like a defective
copy one return s to a bookshop. So blinded was I by fu ry
and rem orse that I could m ake out nothing but a blur o f
stam ps like a blob o f red sealing w ax. Since you are so at
hom e in M endel O sipovich’s w ork, you m ust be w ondering
how he w ould have depicted the scene, this Flem ish portrait
with light stream ing through the curtains onto the youn g
w om an’s face and hands. F o r the sake o f light, fo r the sake
o f the im age, w ould he have lit a fire, fan n ed its flam e,
open ed the doors o f the stove? W ould he have added a
fireplace? (I had no fireplace, and the iron stove was out,
even though it was M arch, icy M arch.) I d o n ’t believe so. A
“ tran sparen t twilight” is all he would have needed to illum i­
nate the face o f the w om an by the window, and the red

• 1 87 •
stam ps with L en in ’s picture w ould have sufficed to highlight
“ the red seal o f royal blood .” (T h e explanation you give o f
“ royal blood ” is perfectly valid.) Oh, he would have foun d a
w ay to evoke the radiance o f hell!
I could tell he had already discovered the fatal erro r.
T h e m om ent he laid eyes on me, he knew what I was up to:
there was a pile o f shred ded p ap er at my side. I stood up
and thrust his books at him. “ I ’ve torn out the inscriptions,”
I said. T h e n I handed him an envelope full o f photographs.
“ I ’ve destroyed the ones that showed us together.”
I saw him only once again— at a rally, read in g a procla­
m ation. H e was a broken m an by then; he sensed his end
was near. Y o u are aw are o f what follow ed. O ne night the
“ faceless p eop le” took him away and confiscated all the
rem ainin g letters. A n d that is how M endel O sipovich’s Col­
lected Works w ere d ep rived o f their fifth volum e and his
corresp on d en ce reduced to twenty notes to publishers and
frien ds. W hat the terrible “ sword o f the revolution” failed to
destroy was destroyed by the frenzy o f love.
W hat is done is done. T h e past lives on in us; we cannot
blot it out. Since dream s are an im age o f the otherw orld and
p ro o f o f its existence, we shall meet in dream s: he kneels by
the stove, feed in g it with dam p wood, or calls to me in a
hoarse voice. I wake up and switch on the light. Pain and
rem orse slowly turn into the m elancholy jo y o f m em ories.
O u r long, passionate, fearfu l love has filled my life and given
it m eaning. Fate has been well disposed tow ard me, and I
seek no reparations. I shall not be in the in dex o f M endel
O sipovich’s books or in his biographies or in the footnotes to
his poem s. I, sir, am the very oeuvre o f M endel O sipovich,
and he is m ine. Is any fate m ore to be desired?
Please do not think, sir, that I have “ reconciled m yself

• 188 •
to my lot” and given up. Since no one knows w here M endel
O sipovich lies buried, I have no intention o f “ resting at his
side” (as the un fortun ate Z. has declared). I f the arch ­
m aterialist D iderot could be carried away by such fantasies,
why shou ldn ’t I too, all m ateriality aside, hope that we shall
m eet in the otherw orld? A n d I trust in G od that I shall not
find another shade at his side.

189 •
 Postscript

A. II the stories in this book, to a greater or lesser extent, come under

the sign o f a theme I would call metaphysical: ever since the Gilgamesh
epic, death has been one o f the obsessive themes o f literature. I f the
term “divan” did not call fo r brighter hues and clearer tones, the
collection might bear the subtitle T h e W est-Easterly Divan fo r its
obvious ironic and parodic undercurrent.
“Simon M agus” is a variation on the theme o f one o f the Gnostic
legends. The D ictionnaire de T h eologie catholique cited by
Jacques Lacarriere defines the Borborites asfo u l heretics: “ T ertu llian
rep roaches them fo r their lewdness and other sacrilegious
w ron gdoing. C lem ent o f A lexan d ria says that they ‘wallow in
lust like ram s and douse their souls in the m ire.’ T h e w ord
‘m ire/ borboros, is used to re fe r to these heretics because o f
their lewd habits . . . Did they in fact wallow in m ire o r is
this m erely a m etaphor?” *
A well-intentioned and highly erudite individual has brought to
my attention the similarity between Simon's schism, depicted in the
story, and a passage written by Boris Souvarine in 19 3 8 ! The passage
reads as follows: “ Stalin and his subjects are always lying, at

♦Jacques Lacarriere, Les Gnostiques (Paris, 19 73), p. 108. [Trans.]

•191
every opportun ity, every m inute, but because they never stop
they no lo n ger even realize they are lying. A n d when everyone
lies, no one lies . . . T h e lie is a natural elem ent o f pseudo­
Soviet society . . . T h e m eetings, the congresses: theatricals,
histrionics. T h e dictatorship o f the proletariat: a patent frau d .
T h e spontaneity o f the m asses: m eticulous organization. T h e
right, the left: lies. Stakhanov: a liar. T h e shockw orker
m ovem ent: a lie. T h e jo y o u s life: a dism al farce. T h e new
m an: a grizzled gorilla. C u lture: non-culture. T h e brilliant
leader: a dull-witted tyrant . . Yet all similarity between the
story and the passage cited is coincidental.
The J a n Walten or Waltin in the story “Last Respects” is a real
person. In a large tome entitled Out o f the N ight he refers to the
episode as authentic, though the plot is highly reminiscent o f so-called
recurrent themes. The Flemish motifs are inspired by the atmosphere
emanating from the canvases o f Terborch, Rubens, and Rembrandt,
by interpretations o f them, and by the memory o f a trip to Hamburg
in ig y 2 . The repulsive gladioluses, which O.V. had brought two or
three days earlier, I painted from life, as, standing at the easel, one
paints a nature m orte.t
“ T h e Encyclopedia o f the D ead” was first published in

* Alain Besanfon, Presence soxnttique et passe russe (Paris, 1980), pp. 2 7 8 —79.
[Trans.]
t T h e original title o f this story was “ A W hore’s Funeral.” T h e editor o f one
o f our literary reviews informed me in a letter dated March 12, 1980, that
“ the members o f the editorial board have decided the title must be changed
to the name o f the heroine, ‘Mariette’ ” (which, as M. pointed out, makes a
fine name for a whore but a poor title for a story). T h ey had, it appears,
taken a naive, lyrical variation on a theme for a political allusion! (President
Tito was gravely ill at the time. [Trans.]) T h e editor o f another review, the
Belgrade journal Knjiznmost (Literature), relieved them o f their headache by
including the story in issue 8/1980. I changed the title myself for purely
literary reasons: the original one had come to seem too literal.

192 *
Knjizevnost, May—
Ju n e 1 9 8 1 ; a year later, on Ju n e 12 , 19 8 2 , it
appeared in T h e N ew Y o rk e r in a translation by Ammiel Alcalay.
The person who dreamed the dream and to whom the story is dedicated
awoke one day to find, not without a shudder o f amazement, that her
most intimate nightmares were etched in stone, like a monstrous mon­
ument. About six months after the dream, and shortly after the story
had appeared in print, a Yugoslav magazine published the following
item under the title “Archives” :

East o f Salt Lake City, the capital of the state of Utah,

and deep in the Rockies’ granite bowels, lies one of the most
unusual archives in all the United States. It is reached by four
tunnels blasted into the rock and consists of several under­
ground rooms connected by a labyrinth o f corridors. Access
to the hundreds of thousands of microfilms stored there is
limited to a highly select staff, and all entrances are equipped
with iron doors and other security measures.
None o f these measures is meant to protect top-secret
information; the archives belong neither to the government
nor to the military. They contain the names of eighteen billion
people, living and dead, carefully entered on the 1,250,000
microfilms compiled to date by the Genealogical Society of
the Church of the Latter-Day Saints. The Church was founded
one hundred and fifty years ago by Joseph Smith and,
according to Mormon sources, counts approximately three
million adherents in the United States and an additional million
abroad.
The names in these extraordinary archives come from all
over the world; they have been copied painstakingly from the
most varied records, and the work goes on. The ultimate goal
o f this stupendous undertaking is to enter on microfilm
nothing less than the whole of mankind—not only the part

• 193 ‘
 that is still living but also the part that has passed on to the
otherworld.
Genealogy is an essential element of religion for the
Mormons. Thanks to the archives, every one o f them can
return to the past, retrace the family tree, and secure the
retroactive baptism o f those of their ancestors who were
unfortunate enough to have missed the “ Mormon revelation.”
The Mormons take their task very seriously. The search
for a suitable place to house the archives dates back to 1958,
and drilling began three years later. The microfilms are
preserved with the utmost care. The temperature in the
subterranean facilities is maintained at forty degrees Fahren­
heit; the humidity is between forty and fifty percent. The air
is constantly circulated by a ventilation system and carefully
filtered so as to prevent the slightest bit of dust or chemical
pollution from entering the premises.
Six immense halls lined with a double layer of reinforced
cement currently contain as much information as is contained
in six million books o f three thousand pages each.
Should it prove necessary', the Mormons are willing to
construct new facilities. Every month, five to six miles of new
microfilm arrive from all ends of the earth. Besides microfilms,
the collection includes tens of thousands of books dealing
directly or indirectly with genealogy, specialized periodical
literature, works of history, etc.*

The legend o f the seven sleepers o f Ephesus clearly traces its

origins to the Koran, but it was also recorded early in the sixth century
by the Syrian writerJacobus Sarguensis (De pueris Ephesi). Gregory
o f Tours (d. 594) agrees with Jacobus that the awakening represents

*Duga (Rainbow), May 1 9 - 2 3 , 19 8 1.

194 *
one o f the proofs o f the Resurrection (De gloria confessum ). Another
variation on the theme o f the resurrection o f the dead occurs in the
Talmud, in the Mishnah. There the sleeper awakens after seventy
years. The legend has also been used by the Arab writer Taufik al-
Hakim in a play entitled T h e Cave. It is al-Hakim, i f I am not
mistaken, who first introduced the figure o f Prisca, the daughter o f
K in g Decius. Three hundred years later another Prisca, also a king’s
daughter, served as a kind o f reincarnation o f her namesake. The
commentary to J a n Potocki's Saragossa M anuscript contains the
following: “ T h e seven sleepers are seven noble Ephesian
youths w ho, as legend has it, took refu g e from D ecius’
persecution (the year was 250) in a cave on M ount Celius.
T w o h u n d red and thirty years later— 309 years later, accord­
in g to other accounts— they awoke from their sleep, but died
shortly thereafter. T h e ir bodies w ere taken to M arseilles in
a large stone coffin, which is now in the E glise Saint-Victor.
T h e ir nam es w ere Constantine, Dionysius, Jo h n , M axim ilian,
M alchus, M artinian, and Serap io n .”
The epigraph fo r my story comes from the eighteenth sura o f the
Koran, which is called “ The Cave” : “ Som e will sa y :/T h e y w ere
three an d their d o g the fo u rth ;/S o m e will sa y :/T h e y w ere five
an d their d o g the sixth./Som e will say, w ishing to penetrate
the m y stery :/T h ey w ere seven and their d og the eighth .” As
we can see, the number o f sleepers is not the only mystery surrounding
the legend. Denise Masson, referring to Muhammad Hamidullah,
gives this explanation o f the lines: “ T h e nine years w ere added
to establish an equilibrium between lu n ar and solar years.”
As fo r “ The M irror o f the U n k n o w n it must be noted that
spiritualists— including Madame Castellan herself—consider this fait
divers authentic. A n analogous instance is cited by the celebrated
astronomer Camille Flammarion ( 18 4 2 —19 2 5 ), author o f the equally
celebrated L a Pluralite des m ondes habites and Les Forces

* 195 ’
naturelles inconnues. In his work L ’Inconnu et les problem es
psychiques he alludes to the case o f one Berard, a former magistrate
and member o f the Assemblee nationale, who during an outing was
forced to spend the night at a sordid inn “ in heavily wooded terrain.”
In a dream that night Monsieur Berard witnessed the detailed en­
actment o f a murder that would take place three years later in the
very room where he had slept the sleep o f the just. The victim was a
lawyer by the name o f Victor Am aud. It was thanks to Berard’s dream,
which had remained fresh in his memory, that the murderer was
caught. The incident is also mentioned in the second volume o f the
memoirs o f retired Police Inspector Garon, whose objectivity and lack
o f imagination are beyond question.*
“ The Story o f the Master and the Disciple" first appeared in
K njizevna rec (T h e L iterary W ord) in the summer o f 19 76 . It
makes the farsighted but, from a psychological standpoint, perfectly
foreseeable point that the disciple would lead “a long and merciless
battle against him [the Master], 'using gossip and slander in a manner
that showed him to be not entirely without talent.' ” As time goes on,
the story loses more and more o f its allegorical meaning, its center of
gravity shifting in the direction o f realism or even the docu m en tary.t
‘T o Die fo r One's Country Is Glorious” is a free reworking of
a Late Bourgeois legend, a favorite o f history-book writers and the
subject o f a number o f variations— most recently in a book by a certain
Frederic I-Gelle on the Black H and— all o f them based on Austrian
sources not devoid o f partiality, sesquipedality, and sentimentality.
“ The Book o f Kings and Fools” was originally conceived in the
form o f an essay, clear traces o f which remain. My intention was to
summarize the true and fantastic— “ unbelievably fantastic”— story of

* Yvonne Castellan, Le Spiritisme (Paris, 1954).

+Reference to a literary polemic in which the author was involved in
Yugoslavia. [Trans.]

• 196-
how T h e Protocols o f the Eld ers o f Zion came into existence,
and to chronicle the work's insane impact on generations o f readers
and its tragic consequences. As a parable o f evil, it has intrigued me
fo r years (as is evident from certain passages in my novel Hourglass).
I wanted to use a historically documented and more or less fam iliar
case to cast doubt on the commonly accepted notion that books serve
only good causes. In point o f fact, sacred books, and the canonized
works o f master thinkers, are like a snake's venom: they are a source
o f morality and iniquity, grace and transgression. “Books in quantity
are not dangerous; a single book is ”
The intended essay on T h e Protocols fe ll apart the moment I
tried to supplement it by imagining the parts o f the book’s history which
have to this day remained obscure and will probably never be clarified;
that is, when I felt the stirrings o f that “baroque need o f the intelligence
that drives it to fill every void” (Cortazar) and decided to bring to
life characters who only lurked in the shadows— above all, the enig­
matic Russian emigre whose name is Belogortsev in the story, and the
even more enigmatic X , who, as the reader has seen, played a role o f
prime importance in unraveling the Protocols mystery. The essay
lost its essayistic genre markings the moment I realized that in the
domain o f research, on the level o f facts, there was no further progress
to be made and I started imagining the events as they m ight have
h app en ed . It was then that with a clear conscience I changed the
book's title from T h e Protocols to T h e C onspiracy. Begun on the
frin g e o f the facts— and never betraying them entirely— the story took
its own direction, where data were insufficient and facts unknown,
in the penumbra where objects acquire shadows and outlines start to
blur.
To give the story a bit o f drama, as Borges would say, I omitted
some details and added others. “ W hen a w riter calls his w ork a
R om an ce,” Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote, “ it need hardly be
observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to

197 *
its fashion and m aterial.” Needless to say, the statement applies
perfectly to the short story as well.
The informed reader will, I trust, have no trouble recognizing
the famous Protocols in T h e C onspiracy and will easily identify
the figures concealed behind such designations as “conspirators” and
“Satanic sects” O f the enormous secondary literature on T h e P ro­
tocols (which to a large extent rehashes the same material, with minor
variations and additions but d ifferen t sympathies), special mention
should be made o f studies by Norman Cohn* and J u . Delevsky and
o f L ’A p ocalyp se de notre tem ps by Henry R o llin g which is not
only a basic research tool but also a moral or logical postscript to the
tale: like a new victim o f T h e C onspiracy, it was burned by German
occupation forces in Pans. The astute reader will observe that several
titles in Belogortsev's list bear on the topic as well.
The reader may also be interested in the person of the “unfor­
tunate Kurt G erstein" who makes an appearance at the end o f the
story. This “tragic hero o f the German resistance” made the brave
decision to join the SS so as to sabotage its extermination policy from
within. “ A s a result o f his technical expertise he was appointed
to the hygiene section o f the WafTen-SS health services; that
is, to the section assigned to perfectin g poison gases in the
guise o f disinfectants. In the sum m er o f 19 42 he m ade a
profession al visit to the Belzec concentration cam p . . . He
subsequently tried to galvanize world public opinion and
succeeded in m aking contact with a Swedish diplom at, the
B aro n von O tter . . . H e also tried to obtain an audience with
the papal nuncio in B erlin , but his request was denied . . .”
His end was as tragic as it was absurd: “ In M ay 19 4 5 he was

* Warrant fo r Genocide: The Myth o f the Jew ish World Conspiracy and the Protocols
o f the Elders o f Zion (London, 1967). [Trans.]
+Paris: N .R .F., 19 39 . [Trans.]

•198-
taken captive by Fren ch troops and incarcerated in Cherche-
M idi Prison, w here, alone and forlorn , he com m itted suicide
in Ju ly o f the sam e y ear” (Leon Poliakov, B reviaire de la haine
[Paris, 7 9 5 1 ]J.* Gerstein wrote his testimony in French as a precau­
tionary measure but also, surely, because Captain Wirth had made
his native language repellent to him.
Despite its abundant quotations, the story “R ed Stamps with
Lenin's Picture” is pure fiction, although . . . although “ I n ever
could u n d erstan d ,” said Nabokov, “ what was the good o f
thinking up books, o f p enning things that had not really
h ap p en ed in som e way o r oth er.”
The reference to the “arch-materialist Diderot” derives doubtless
from the follow ing letter, which I discovered thanks to Madame E li­
sabeth de Fontenay: “ People who have loved each other in life
an d ask to be bu ried side by side are not perhaps so m ad as
is generally supposed. P erhaps their ashes press together,
com m ingle, and unite . . . W hat do I know? Perhaps they
have not lost all feeling, all m em ory o f their original state;
p erh aps a rem nant o f w arm th and life continues to sm older
in them . O Sophie, i f I m ight still hope to touch you, feel
you, unite with you, m erge with you when we are no m ore,
i f there w ere a law o f affinity between ou r elem ents, if we
w ere destined to form a single being, if in the train o f
centuries I w ere m eant to becom e one with you, if the
m olecules o f you r m old erin g lover had the pow er to stir and
m ove about and go in search o f you r m olecules dispersed in
nature! L eave m e this wild fancy; it is so d ear to me, it would
en sure m e an eternity in you and with you . . . ”

♦T h e passage quoted in the story is from p. 2 2 3. See also Kurt Gerstein,

Dokumentation zur M assenvergasung (Bonn, 1956). [Trans.]

1 99 '
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Ashes and A Tom b for Boris Davidovich. He
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and currently divides his time between
Belgrade and Paris.

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 In T h e E n c y c lo p e d ia o f the D e a d , D a n ilo k i$ offers a v isio n

that e x p a n d s the d o m a in o f life at the e x p e n se o f that o f

death. T h e s e stories present that v isio n w ith a jo u rn a lis t s

p re c isio n , w ith a ta x id e rm ist’s tac tile k n o w le d g e o f era an d

re a lm , w ith the tenacity o f a true son o f the century. T h e

w ay k i$ p roceed s, an d h o w far he g o e s, testifies as m u ch to

the in te n sity o f this w r ite r ’s im a g in a tio n — fu eled by

o b stacles, by the fin ite itse lf— as to the o m n iv o ro u sn e ss o f

h is eye an d m em ory. H is p e n , often lite ra lly v e rg in g in to

etern ity, does to h is ch a racters w h at n early every k n o w n

creed a sp ire s to d o to the h u m a n so u l: it exten d s their

ex isten ce, it erodes o u r sense o f d e a th ’s im p en etra b ility .

H a v in g read th is b<x)k, o n e stan ds a ch a n ce o f d e riv in g

from o n e ’s o w n e x tin c tio n the c o m fo rt o f k n o w in g that o n e

h as alrea d y been here w ith this k ilro y .

— JOSKPH BRODSKY

D a n ilo k iS ’s c o lle c tio n o f short stories h as interested m e

greatly. F an tasy chases rea lity an d reality chases fantasy.

P ir a n d e llo an d B o rges are not far aw a y . B u t these n am es

are in te n d e d as a p p r o x im a te referen ces. k i£ is a n ew ,

o r ig in a l w riter. — l e o n a r d o s c i a s c i a ,

T h e T im e s L itera ry S u p p le m e n t