#soviet protest

A Mighty Girl

Anna Akhmatova's masterpiece should not exist. "Requiem" -- not the sacred choral mass, but her searing poem-cycle about Stalin's terror -- was so dangerous that to write it down could mean death. So she didn't. She composed it in her head, a few lines at a time, and entrusted them to a handful of trusted friends, who memorized the words and watched her burn the paper over an ashtray. Eleven people, all told, carried "Requiem" in their memories through the worst years -- and, as Akhmatova said later with quiet pride, "not one of them betrayed me." For years, one of the great poems of the twentieth century survived nowhere but in the minds of the people who had committed it to memory.

The ritual was always the same. In her Leningrad apartment, which she assumed was bugged, Akhmatova would scribble a few lines onto a scrap of paper and pass it in silence to a trusted friend, most often Lydia Chukovskaya. The reader would review the lines, fix them in their memory, and hand the paper back. Then Akhmatova would say something harmless aloud for the hidden microphones -- "How early autumn came this year" -- and hold a lit match to the scrap until it was ash.

Hands, matches, an ashtray: this was how one of the century's greatest poems was made, written on paper that was destroyed within minutes and preserved only in the memory, because memory was the only hiding place the secret police could not search.

The poem had been born in a prison line. During the worst years of Stalin's terror, Akhmatova spent seventeen months waiting in the lines outside Kresty -- the notorious Leningrad prison where thousands of the arrested were interrogated and held before being shot or shipped to the Gulag -- hoping for word of her son, who had been arrested for no crime but his parentage. One freezing day, a woman in the line recognized the famous poet -- her lips blue with cold -- and whispered the question that would define the rest of Akhmatova's life: could she describe this? Could anyone?

"I can," Akhmatova answered. As she later recounted, "It was then that something like a smile slid across what had previously been just a face."

That promise became "Requiem," a cycle of poems mourning not only her own son but the husbands, sons, and brothers of all the women who stood in those lines, and the millions the regime was swallowing whole. She had appointed herself their witness. "No foreign sky protected me," she wrote in its opening lines; "I stand as witness to the common lot."

Anna Akhmatova was born on this day in 1889 near Odessa and raised in Tsarskoye Selo, the imperial town outside St. Petersburg. She began writing verse as a child; when her father, scandalized at the thought of a poet in the family, forbade her to publish under his name, she took the name of a Tatar great-grandmother -- Akhmatova -- and made it one of the most revered in Russian literature. By her mid-twenties, with the collections "Evening" and "Rosary," she was famous across Russia, celebrated for her love poems.

Then came the Russian Revolution, and behind it a long procession of grief. In 1921, her former husband, the poet Nikolai Gumilyov, was executed by the secret police. Her son, Lev, would be arrested again and again over the decades, disappearing into the Gulag for years at a time. Her close friend Osip Mandelstam died in a transit camp. Nikolai Punin, the great love of her middle years, would die in the camps as well. One by one, the regime took the people she loved -- and one by one, it tried to erase them.

It tried to erase her too. From the mid-1920s, her poetry was effectively banned; for years she was unpublishable, surviving on translation work and Pushkin scholarship. In 1946, Stalin's cultural enforcer Andrei Zhdanov denounced her before the nation, expelled her from the Union of Soviet Writers, and stripped her of her ration cards. He dismissed her, unforgettably, as "half nun, half harlot" -- a relic whose intimate, apolitical verse had no place among the Soviet people. The denunciation was meant to silence her for good.

She could have escaped all of it. In the years when much of literary Russia was boarding ships for Paris and Berlin, Akhmatova -- celebrated, courted, well connected enough to go -- chose the prison lines instead. A poet's place, she believed, was beside her people at the precise moment they were suffering, because someone had to stay behind and hold the memory, and she had decided that someone would be her. To abandon Russia in its agony was, to her, unthinkable. "I am your voice," she had written, "the warmth of your breath."

For decades, she paid for that choice in grief and silence. But her wager proved exactly right. "Requiem" outlived the men who would have shot her for committing it to paper. It outlived the dictator who lay pickled in his mausoleum. The poem she had never dared commit to paper was finally published in full in Russia in 1987, during the glasnost years -- twenty-one years after her death, and not long before the empire that had banned it collapsed entirely. The witness had outlasted the terror.

Anna Akhmatova died in 1966, at seventy-six, by then quietly revered at home and honored abroad. She had lived through revolution, war, siege, and the murder of nearly everyone she loved, and across all of it she had refused to look away. Stalin and his enablers had tried to erase it all -- the terror, the crimes, the dead, the women waiting in the prison lines. Akhmatova bore witness to every part of it, and she made the memory eternal.