Epic chapter!
Based on Requiem by Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966), living during Stalinist repressions. My translation of her poem are all in italics. This hits home for me, my grandparents grew up in this time.
Assume Sweeney's prison time to be 1835-1850, including the time in prison before trial.
Watch the changes in POV and the footnotes!
If you think I'm evil and playing with your mind, youre right!
+If anyone ever tells you fanfiction cannot be educational, tell them HA and show them this. Yes, this IS an advertising move.
XVIII. Bronze Statue of Yenisey
If time had wings,
Perhaps we'd all be brothers
And sisters, just in grief alone
And maybe we would know a mother
Who lost a son
Just like our very own.
If time had wings,
Perhaps we'd meet another
Who, whipped for nothing,
Lay dying on the floor
And maybe then we'd learn forever,
That through all time,
wherever, and whenever,
We've never been alone.
[Snezhinka, 2010]
Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -
I was then with my own people
There, where, in misfortune, my people were too.
[Leningrad, 1961]
Under a foreign sky,
Under no-one's wings protected –
I am with my own people
And yet, so alone.
[Botany Bay, 1840]
During the frightening years of the Yezhovschina(1) terror, I spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone recognized me. And then, the woman standing behind me, who, had of course, never heard my name, woke from the trance characteristic for all of us, and asked me, quietly, whispered in my ear:
«And this, could you describe this?'
And I said - 'I can.'
And then, something like a smile slid across what had once been her face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]
During the first few months of my imprisonment, I was very much alienated from the rest of the group. Once, standing in a queue waiting to be served what they called food, a man standing behind me nudged me in the back. I recognized in him one of the members of my barrack. An optimistic, talkative young man who saw everything in a bright light. He bent towards me and whispered in my ear.
«I wish I could read an' write, I'd describe all o' this pretty well and make a fortune when I get out. Perhaps ye could teach me,» he added, sniggering.
«It's hard to describe this with words,» I answered. And yet, perhaps it was possible. But I would never write it down.
[The first of April, 1836]
Instead of a prologue
Mountains bend before this grief,
The great river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And deathly anguish.
Fresh winds blow for someone softly,
Gentle sunsets warm them through;
We don't know this,
All of us, the same:
We only hear the scrape of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking up as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital, now wild,
We'd meet, breathing less than death itself
The sun, lower; the Neva(2), drenched in mist,
With hope still singing in the distance.
The verdict. Here come floods of tears,
And now, she's all alone,
As if life ripped from a beating heart,
As if thrown to die, sprawled on the earth,
But there she goes...she sways...alone
Where are you, unwilling girl-friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What visions do you see, in the Siberian storm?
What visions do you see in the halo of the moon?
Each one of them, in farewell, I salute.
[March 1940]
The wait is long
The night is quiet
Perhaps, tomorrow...
I would be free;
Or trudging along in chains to a ship
That smelled of death
Of parting, and of sorrow.
Some men have yet to wake,
In their soft beds, at home, so safe.
We do not know this,
And those bright times
In the back of the mind,
With sunshine laced...
It is as if they never existed.
The verdict. Somewhere, I can hear her cry.
And now she's all alone, like me,
Walking...swaying...empty.
Where would I be, in a few years time?
What visions would I see, in the desert air?
What would I see, in the muzzle of a gun?
What visions would I see, in the halo of the sun?
...Farewell.
[London Prison, 1836]
Dedications
It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their freedom,
And Leningrad hung about its prisons
Like a worthless addition.
And when, mad with torture,
The Troops of accused
Where marching along on their way
Shrill, sharp, the steam-whistles sang
A short song of farewell that day.
Stars of death shone over us
As innocent Russia writhed
Under blood-spattered boots
And the Black Marusya(3) tyres.
[Leningrad, 1940]
I suppose only the dead
Smile, and sleep, too
The world lies beneath its prisons
Like a pedestal.
I walked towards the ship,
closer, and closer
I heard her say my name;
She had cried all her tears
Her voice was just a wave
A ripple
In the swirling water
A song of farewell, that day.
Stars of death shone on me.
As London turned into a pit
Trampled by boots of corruption
And injustice, like black tar,
Slid into the cracks...
[London harbour, 1835]
I.
You were taken away at dawn.
I followed you, just like
I'd follow a coffin;
Children cried in the darkened hall;
Before the Icon the candle had faded away;
The cold of that icon upon your lips lay,
A deadly sweat on your brow,
Oh, I will never cease to remember!
And I will, like the Wives of Strelets(4)
Wail beneath towers of the Kremlin.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]
You were taken away at midday
Among flowers, that look now
Like funeral wreaths...
The baby in my arms cried.
The candle back home flickered
And died,
Before the Holy Icon.
You screamed for me,
Blood from your head,
Oh, I'll never forget.
I will come, like a widow of war,
And wail beneath the prison walls.
[1835, July. London].
II.
Silent flows the river Don
A yellow crescent shines silently on
The house; she enters, hat askew;
She watches the shadow of the moon;
This woman is ailing,
This woman is alone
Her husband dead, her son in jail
Pray for me...
[1938]
Silent flows the river Thames
A crescent, yellow as my hair
It shines upon my empty stairs
In my empty house.
I enter, crooked bonnet,
Arsenic in hand
I see the shadow of the moon
Upon the floor, so grey and bland.
This woman is ill
This woman is alone
Her daughter taken, her husband gone...
Pray for me...
[London, 1835]
III.
It isn't me, someone else is suffering, not me.
Not like this, and that, what has happened,
Cover it with black sheets,
Then let the torches be removed. . .
Night.
[1939]
It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't –
What am I? Who am I? I feel like I am on fire.
What has happened, poison will enfold in its black cloth
Cover it forever, cut the memory from my mind
Like a butcher's knife
A barber's blade
Let the candles go out...
Night.
[1835]
IV.
It'd do good to show you, laughing, chatting,
Everyone's favourite friend
The happy sinner of Tsarskoye Selo(5)
What will happen to your life in the end.
Beneath the Crosses (6), you will stand,
Three-hundredth in line,
A parcel in hand,
And with your hot tears
You will burn holes
In the new year's ice.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
And not a sound is heard – but how many
Lives end there, innocent, without blame . .
[1938]
Oh, if only you had seen,
Everyone's darling, everyone's friend,
What will happen to you in the end.
Like the last whore, you will stalk the streets,
Your husband the millionth in a prison queue
In the far off desert heat;
And sitting, for hours, at the deserted bay,
And with your hot tears you will water the Thames
Waiting for him to come home.
[1840, London]
V.
For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've knelt before the executioner
For you, my son and my horror.
Now everything's muddled forever
And I no longer know
Who is a man, and who a beast .
And how long it is
Till the execution...
And the dusty flowers,
And the death toll,
And the tracks
Seem to lead nowhere...
And, staring me through the cracks
Threatening me with swift death
Is an enormous star...
[1939]
Weeks I have been screaming
To give you back to me,
I've knelt before the judge
For you, my daughter, part of me.
Now everything is gone forever,
And I no longer know,
Who is a man, and who is a beast,
And why death is so slow.
The rotting flowers in my room
The empty chair, the empty bed
The tracks in the floor dust I'd never clean
Lead nowhere at all. Instead,
The stars shine brightly every night
And when with baited breath,
I will wish upon a star,
I will wish...for death.
[1835, London]
VI.
Light weeks fly by
And I don't understand
What has happened.
How, my son, into your prison
Did the White Nights stare?
And how do they stare, again, now,
With hawks' eyes,
Talking of your tall cross,
Of death.
[1939. Spring]
Weeks fly by,
And I don't understand
What has happened.
Do you, my daughter, from your prison,
Remember me at all?
Does the star that stares through the window
Now remind you of my song?
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder how you are,
There, within the sky so deep
Let it soothe your troubled sleep.
I will not come back again
Stars will stay, so let it rain!
And when you show your little light
Twinkle, soothe your tears at night.
[1835. Late Autumn, London]
VII. The Verdict
The word fell like a stone
Onto my still living chest
It's alright, I was prepared,
Somehow, I'll cope, I'll do my best.
I have a lot to do today;
I need to kill my memory;
I need to turn my soul to stone;
I need to learn to live again.
And yet...the hot rustle of summer
Like a celebration beyond my door;
I have long expected this
Bright day, and this deserted home.
[June 22nd, 1939, Fontanny House]
The word fell onto my chest
That still lived, and breathed with life;
Had I not known? Deep down, I had;
I'll cope somehow, I know, I'll try.
I have much work to do today:
I must kill memories of you;
Turn my blood and heart to grey;
A stony heart, just skin and sinew;
I need to learn to dry my tears
I need to learn to live again.
But warm July just smiles, cheered,
Like a dance beyond these walls
I had never thought, that some day
I'd come back on such a bright day
To an empty home.
[July, 1835, 186 Fleet Street, London]
VIII. Ode to Death
Death, you will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; it's so hard for me.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a bomb of poisonous gas. Creep up on me
Like an experienced criminal, with a weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with Typhus,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of sickness), take me
So I can see the top of a blue hat,
And the house administrator's terrified white face. (7)
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Flows on. The Polar Star shines bright.
And the dark blue shine of beloved eyes
Covers and soothes the deathly fright.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi House]
Death, you will come anyhow – so come now!
I wait for you every night in the barracks.
I leave sleep to others, and I sit in the dark
Waiting for you, so simple, so beautiful, my saviour
Take whatever shape you wish.
Become a bullet from an officer's gun,
A jealous convict with a club,
Or a woman, which, I will, by instinct protect, and be
Annihilated for my kindness.
I don't care no more.
The ocean swirls beyond the walls. A star above me shines so bright;
And when you come, Death, the glow of her beloved eyes
Will mute my scream and soothe my fright.
[1839, Botany Bay]
IX.
Madness with its wing
Has covered half my soul already
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into a black alley.
And that is when I understood
That I must let it win, alas,
When I listened to my own
Delirium
As if to another's.
And it won't let me take
Anything away with me
(However you may ask it,
However you may beg):
Not my son's frightening eyes -
Or hardened, stony suffering
Or the day, when thunder came,
Or the hour of a prison meeting,
Nor the dear coolness of a hand
Nor the anxious shade of Linden,
Nor the light sound, in the distance,
Of words of final consolation.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi House]
Madness with its wave
Has enveloped me whole
It feeds me fire
Feeds me gall.
And I knew, as I heard
In delirium, my voice,
Saw my eyes, bulging,
My speech a noise
I would hear in passing,
That it would have to win;
And it would give me nothing to keep
To cherish, from within,
Not my husband's voice, or face,
Nor the brown of his eyes,
Nor my friend's dear hands and words
Of comfort, or the cries
Of my daughter, and her warm weight,
resting
In my arms,
Nor the sun that came through leaves of trees
As I cried in the streets for alms.
All that's left, would be a trace
Like a footprint in loose sand
That would etch streaks in my face
Make me run, to wait, forever,
At the harbour, to retrace...
...memories...
[London, 1835]
X. Crucifixion
A choir of angels glorified the hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To His father, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The beloved disciple stony in his stance,
But there, where the mother stood and silence kept,
No-one even dared to glance.
[1943. Tashkent]
XI. Epilogue
I have learned how faces fall,
How terror looks from lowered lids,
How hard pages of writing
Trace suffering on cheeks
I know how hair of black and ash
Can suddenly turn silver.
I've learned how little smiles
On submissive lips can wither;
How in the little laugh
So dry,
trembles terror.
And, so, I
Pray not for myself alone
But to those who stood with me, to them all,
ln freezing cold and scorching July heat
Under the red, blind wall.
[March 10th, 1940]
I have seen how one can turn
From man into a beast
How faces crease
How hair of black,
Or red, of white,
Can become gray as mist,
How memories begin to twist
And fade, like smiles on worn mouths.
How marks upon those burdened backs
Become one's only name
I will not pray, but if one must,
He must pray but for all of us
Who stands in heat, in cold, in snow
Beneath the stars, which, in their blindness, glow...
[July 1847, Botany Bay]
The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who was dragged with brute force to the window;
And who native soil no longer tread;
The one who, flicking her beautiful head,
«I come here, like a home!» - she said,
I wish I could call you all by your names,
But the list has been taken,
And to know no-one claims.
For them I have woven a blanket, a sheet,
Of poor words, of words I had heard of them speak;
Of them, I remember, forever and always,
Even in new grief I won't forget.
And even if they shut my tormented mouth
Through which screams a people of
Millions, of us,
Let them, too, remember me
That way
On the eve of my burial day.
And if someone sometime decides, in this land,
To build a memorial for me, I hand
My consent for such an event to take place,
But with a condition – do not build it to face
The place by the sea, where I was born,
With the sea, alas, the last bond has been torn;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the stump so hallowed;
Where an inconsolable shadow for eternity will follow;
But here, where for three hundred hours I stood bold,
And where, for me, they never slid open the bolt
Because even in bliss of death I fear
To forget the thundering Black Marusyas
Forget how the hateful door's slams never ceased,
And how the old woman, howled like a wounded beast...
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]
The hour has come; as I run,
I remember,
the friends and the foes,
The hot summers of November.
Him, who was dragged by his skin to his death
And him, being a hero, with no laurel wreath
Him, whom I cherished, a friend and a brother
Who fell on his knees and walked not much farther
And him, who came into the barracks with laughs
Saying he'd beat them, he'd win on our behalf!
And if I don't live, as many have not
Let all the others not forget my lot
And if someone, sometime
Though it is unlikely(8)
Decides to build a memorial for me
I do agree to this, and yet, a condition:
Do not place it in London, by my old home;
I do not wish her to know I am gone;
Do not build it in vanity,
Paint me clear,
The animal I am now,
Revenge countering fear
Build it right here, on the bay, where I died,
Thinking of her, who, was once by my side
Build it with passion, with truth and with hate
That which I only deserve and await
And let, from the motionless eyelids of bronze
Like tears, thawing ice fall and flow, thereupon,
And the prison dove let in the far distance coo,
And along the Niva let the silent ships go.
Footnotes:
1 Nikolai IvanovichYezhov: senior figure in the NKVD (Soviet public and secret police) from 1936 to 1938, whose reign during the period of Stalinist repressions and purges was sometimes known as «Yezhovschina».
2 River Neva – a river in northwestern Russia flowing from Lake Ladoga through the western part of Leningrad region.
3 «Black Marusya» - cars used to transport the arrested. «Marusya» is diminutive for the name «Maria».
4 «Streletsky Wives»: after the Streltsy regiment Uprising of 1698 against Peter the Great, Peter had some 1200 Streltsy men executed. The reference to their wives is probably from the painting by V.I. Surikov, «Morning of the Streletsky execution».
5 «Tsarskoe Selo» – literally, «Tsar's village» - a summer residence where Akhmatova spent her early years.
6 «The Crosses»: a prison complex in central Leningrad near the «Finland» Train Station, called The Crosses because of the shape of two of the buildings.
7 «...top of a blue hat/administrator's white face»: NKVD workers wore blue-coloured caps. Also, during arrests, the adminsitrator, «upravdom», was usually present.
8 I think Sweeney is being humble here. Did Tim Burton not make an epic memorial for him?