Stories about soviet georgia by Teona Chanishvili

I N T E L E K T I PUBLISHING

Compiled by Tamaz

Vasadze

translated by

Philip Price Mary Childs Maya Kiasashvili

The book is a literary reflection of one of the most dramatic periods in Georgia’s history. Literature seems to be the most truthful witness of historical events, the most unbiased, as well as the most faithful keeper of the past. The samples of the Georgian literature published in the present book are an excellent illustration of how our recent past can be reflected in fiction. The stories by the Georgian writers give us a won derful opportunity to trace the historic stages our country went though, to directly experience the life under the Soviet regime, along with its sick nature manifested in various ways. The characters, their lives and activities clearly serve as a proof of the hu man fate in Soviet Georgia. The publication contains stories by Leo Kiache li, Nikolo Mitsishvili, Mikheil Javakhishvili, Kon stantine Gamsakhurdia, Demna Shengelaia, Giorgi Leonidze, Otar Chkheidze, Rezo Cheishvili, No dar Dumbadze, Guram Rcheulishvili, Shota Chan tladze, Revaz Inanishvili, Jemal Topuridze, Nodar Tsuleiskiri, Jemal Karchkhadze, Vladimer Sikha rulidze, Irakli Kastrashvili and Nugzar Shataidze.

Contents

Nikolo Mitsishvili

Rezo Cheishvili

Giorgi Leonidze

Guram Rcheulishvili

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA 39

Shota Chantladze

Jemal Topuridze

Revaz Inanishvili

Nugzar Shataidze

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Nikolo Mitsishvili /1896-1937/

FEBRUARY

NIKOLO MITSISHVILI February

The writer fell victim to the Soviet purges, so it is no wonder he used his own perception to describe the dramatic period when the Bolshevik Russia occupied Georgia. The author adopts an ironic approach to closely look at the psychology of a philis tine, his overpowering fear of the new, aggressive system. However, his nature prompts him to also demon strate unlimited readiness to comply and become docilely servile, mainly because he is guided by his strong instinct to survive under all cir cumstances. Such people easily dodge moral principles, finding new ways of survival in the hostile reality. Beyond the author’s skeptical and ironic observations lies his true position: the prerequisite for a social and political tragedy is the passive stance adopted by people themselves, their silent acceptance of the evil, their willing or un willing participation in the evil deeds. The writer’s irony intensi fies the ominous, oppressive atmo sphere of the first days of the Soviet occupation.

[Abstract] The dawn broke strangely that day, just as it had the day before. The previous night even the weather had poured out its woes, throwing down thunder and lightning that seemed to liberate the sky from its sorrow so that the following morning the sun appeared, warming the new government in Batum. The Tatars had not been able to take Batum the night before (when gunshots had been heard), and as a result they had not managed to occupy the city. When dawn broke on that day, the sun was greet ed by a different government, neither Tatar nor Menshevik, but a government of Bolsheviks. The Revolutionary Committee was sitt ing in the governor’s residence.

So it was that on that morning, finally, it became clear that the red government of the Bolsheviks had arrived, and that the flag flying over the governor’s residence was red. The weather likewise ac knowledged these new truths: the warm sun melted the frozen pud dles on the streets, and although a cool wind was blowing in from the west, the sea rolled gently over the seabed. The white mist covering the mountaintops climbed up the slopes of Upper Adjara, striding over the slopes and mountain passes and slipping away like a thief. It was yesterday’s mist, and perhaps it was afraid of today, for today everything was different. The streets of Batum were quiet in the morning – everyone remained in their houses (from fear) – but later, when the sun was at its full height, the people opened their doors and poured out of their homes in droves, setting the streets abuzz with movement. The town bustled under the sun, each of its citizens (God bless you all!) thinking the same thought and wishing the same wish: ‘If only I could get hold of a scrap of paper – something with a star on it. That is, some kind of certificate from the new government (the Revolutionary Committee). Just a piece of paper stating (in any lan guage you want – Persian if need be) that the owner of the paper (his name) is in fact so-and-so or so-and-so. Nothing more. And most importantly it would be stamped with a five-pointed star, and around the star would be printed the words “Workers of the world…”’

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

This was the thought that occupied our citizen that morning, and even if it was not his first thought, it was certainly one of his more important ones. The citizen meanwhile held one more wish, a quite different, unspoken desire: he wanted someone to convince him that he was still alive. The citizen could not quite believe (when he woke up that morning) that he was not dead, and so naturally he wanted to make sure he was alive, but since he was unable to convince himself he felt it was neces sary to be seen by others. He would simply ask the question and re ceive an answer. It was this need more than any other that forced the citizen through his door, and he felt somehow metaphysically that he could satisfy his need only by consultation with the Revolution ary Committee. In other words, only the Revolutionary Committee could convince him that he was still alive, or on the other hand that he was no longer alive and that the beautiful day, the sunshine, and the happiness they brought him were merely illusions – the earthly dreams of a citizen who had passed away in March 1921.

NIKOLO MITSISHVILI February

And what was going on outside the Revolutionary Committee? The entire population of the city was standing outside the Revolu tionary Committee, while the hot sun rose above them. The citizen believed that surely there was no need (for the govern ment) to shoot so many people, but since he was not yet sure just what the government did need, he remained afraid. Still, he was re assured by the thought that he had come to the Revolutionary Com mittee as a fully devoted citizen, sincere in his loyalty and solidarity (and everyone there would have sworn before God that their loyalty was sincere). ‘Those Mensheviks are gone and forgotten,’ thought the citizen. ‘To hell with them! We have a new government, just what we need (goodness knows we need a government). And now this government is right here! See for yourself, good sirs! A new government, right here in this building. How had they got here? Ah, what does it matter how they got here? The important thing is that they got here, and here they are, in this building, and all I’m waiting for now is a piece of paper from them, with a star on it…’

The citizen’s question swirled around him for a moment, but then turned and leapt away. How had they got here…? When a man who is chattering drunkenly comes to the commissar iat or the Cheka building, he stops for a moment (and falls silent instinctively), passes by the reviled place, and then starts muttering again as if nothing had happened. The citizen took similar care when raising his perilous question, and yet the answer remained elusive. “Well, they’re here now,” he finally reasoned. “And everything seems alright (yes, it certainly seems al right). Maybe we can live with them.” Learning to live with them would come in the future, but for now all he wanted was to be left in peace and allowed to go about his business:

‘If they just give me the paper and let me go home peacefully without killing me,’ he thought. ‘If they do only that for me (for that is all I want, and nothing more), I will swear eternal loyalty to them. And who can say (hand on heart) that they liked those Mensheviks any way? I swear to you, on my life, no-one liked them. And after all, it’s a perfectly good Revolutionary Committee. Here they are and here they’ll stay. Good sirs, I hereby yield to the Revolutionary Commit tee! What’s done is done.’ The Revolutionary Committee was surrounded by a sea of people, all with the same thoughts bubbling up in their heads. The red flag flew high above the Revolutionary Committee, and higher still the warm sun shone benevolently. The citizen loved life on such days. On a sunny day in spring life was as sweet as sugar syrup: a man was warmed through to his bones, and if he turned his back to the sun it was as if pleasure itself was melting all over his back. And what’s more, if you were to drip a warm word or two onto his warmed-up life, the man would fall in love with you right there and then, with the highest, most exalted love, for warmth and pleasure engender loyalty and love. This is why the citizen continued to stand there, holding his trem bling heart in his hands and stretching his hands out expectantly

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

toward the three-story building (the Revolutionary Committee), waiting for a single warm word to drip down onto his heart, a single word at which his heart would open out into a flower of love and loyalty. The citizen stood in front of the Revolutionary Committee for a long time: one hour, two hours, four… Not that it bothered him to stand there like that – on the contrary he took pleasure in it, watching men go in (to the Revolutionary Committee) and come out again carry ing stamped sheets of paper that unfurled like long, narrow white tongues. Many went in, and many came out again with stamped sheets of paper. Slowly (and timidly) the citizen moved forward, as if he didn’t actually want to enter the Revolutionary Committee at all, as if he were inching toward the shadows to get out from under the hot sun, and had stopped silently on the steps in front of the door. He asked one man, then another, moved forward, moved forward again, asked another man, and then another until he finally received an answer.

NIKOLO MITSISHVILI February

“Comrade,” replied the man (a civilian in military clothing) with a smile. “Please come again tomorrow from 10 o’clock. We will give you everything you need. After that trains will be prepared and you will all be taken to the necessary locations…” Now and again cigarette smoke wafted up suddenly into the man’s eyes, and the bitterness of the smoke brought tears to his eyes and caused him to wrinkle his nose. The citizen too wrinkled his nose, but from love rather than bitterness. In truth he wanted to laugh, to shout, to roar, and to spin around from sheer joy like a bullock, but his sense of propriety made him contain himself, and instead, coming back out onto the steps in front of the Revolutionary Com mittee, he wrinkled his nose. He had succeeded in consulting with the Revolutionary Committee: he was alive, and he would stay alive for as long as his good fortune allowed. Tomorrow they would stamp the paper and let him go home (he wished someone would be good enough to come along and pinch him, just to be sure). ‘It appears things aren’t as bad as they seemed,’ thought the citizen as he walked along the street. “Comrade,” the man had called him, and

that could only be a good sign. Perhaps there was indeed something comradely about him. In any case he was full of comradely feeling. The citizen loved the world. He loved the sun, the street, the Revolu足 tionary Committee, the red flag, and everything else, in every colour or no colour at all. As he walked he felt filled to the brim with love.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Giorgi Leonidze /1899-1966/

MOUNTA IN GRAZING 18

The selection of short stories is part of a bigger cycle called The Wishing Tree. Ultimately, they tell how the Communist regime attempts to replace the humanistic morale ris ing from the Christian past with the new concept of class belonging. The painful process results in innumer able personal tragedies, widespread suffering and many deaths the new order brought about. Suddenly, the potential unreliability of an indi vidual – only because he or she be longs to ‘the hostile class’ – gains an upper hand over their person al ethical values and conventional human ethics. Very similar to other totalitarian regimes, which branded certain groups of people as inferior or sub-standard based on ethnic or racial principles, the Soviet system fought and often exterminated its own population. The stories are narrated by the characters who experienced all the psychological and physical strain caused by the new regime. The in tellectual and emotional tragedy is rendered through a series of highly expressive confessions.

“Oh, I can no longer have children. I didn’t have a son to continue my line, and I’m all alone, between the earth and the sky! I have a marvelous family name, but God did not give me a child. What can I do, if after me, no one remains from our illustrious family? It’s a name, not a fleece! How many troubles and worries, how often I’ve fought. Still, I should be thankful to God!” the former aristocrat was saying, curved like a scythe, his eyes covered with fog. It was the first days of the Revolution, and all the same, he was crossing himself, “Oh Glorious one, praise you, O Eternal Lord! But, who can change God’s will?” “Tell me, young man, which I should complain about? The extinc tion of my name, old age, or being deprived of my estate?” He was complaining at the threshold of the commissar’s office, he, the final descendent of his family name, the Q’adori, who now, for the last time, had come to the commissar to request that they return the mountain grazing lands that used to belong to him, for food, for his sustenance. He had tied his horse near by on a pole. Crows and ra vens were guarding the steed, waiting for the nobleman… [FOOT NOTE: the Georgian term for nobleman is tavada.]

Both the horse and the master were hungry. His servant boy, Shave betsva Ghoristvelashvili had run away. [FOOTNOTE: the servant’s name, in Georgian, means “With-black-body-hair Son-of-a-pigmilker.] He had nobody at home. A cold room awaited him, and they were taking even that away from him. That day, I couldn’t escape from the frightened former aristocrat, Q’adori, who was chased out of the office with a denial… and on top of that, they told him not to return with this request. It was dinnertime, and we went to the Daba tavern. I invited him in; they served Georgian pub fare, and when Q’adori saw the abun dant food and wine he revived at bit, but still wasn’t his usual self, and complained, “What am I now, I’m left with a useless horse whip, instead of a mountain, a field, and a forest!” “My life wasn’t a bowl of cherries, but what can I do? What will be, will be!” And suddenly he started to doubt, “Maybe this country will still settle down? But no, the way the country’s changing is seems it won’t settle down soon, and I’ll starve to death!” Q’adari was saying, “That’s what I believe, it’s as if I’m a corpse, as if I’m not even human any more!” And suddenly he asked, “I still can’t understand, why they won’t give me my grazing land!” “The Revolution’s happened!” I told him naively.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

“So, my mountains, my grass, what harm do they do?” Mr. Q’adori couldn’t understand. “My grandfather’s grandfather, Shermazan Darbazbatoni, was the lord of all of Kakheti, and now, I’m not supposed to own and enjoy even a single mountain and it grasses?” “My father, Amilghabaris, would kill a cow every day for a supra, and I’m asking you for just a small space to graze on the mountain?” [FOOTNOTE: A supra is a Georgian feast, with traditional dishes, wine, often singing.] “Well, at that time we were good boys, fearlessly shouting our family name in the midst of big battles: ‘slashing, slashing…’ they were always carrying severed heads of Tatars back from war on asses.” “And what have I done to anyone? I was a brother and friend to everyone, a godfather, a good neighbor, and kind! What are the times coming to?! Morals have been buried; politeness and respect have disappeared. Georgia, too, after all of this will disappear, my dear young man!” Q’adori was looking at me intensely, and waiting for me to agree with what he’d said.

GIORGI LEONIDZE Mounta in Grazing

“I want to tell you with an open heart, and an open mind: I accept my fate, and I won’t say, ‘Let’s fight tooth and nail!’” Q’adori spoke with a subdued smile, “Although what good will a boiling mood do me? But, my heart is hurting! After all, I’m a human being, too, don’t I need to exist?” Spring rain drops that bring a heart to life and a shining rainbow, were making me feel happy. The petals of the newly flowering almond tree and the pear blossoms were flying in the breeze like ashes, and Q’adori’s words did not resonate in my heart. But Q’adori continued his story: “There are four things missing in the world, the sky is missing stairs, the sea – a bridge, an ass – a child, and man – justice. They’ve taken away my estate! Is that just? When I think of my walnut orchard, where the sun’s rays couldn’t penetrate! My yew tree! Or my forest in Korodeti – where I’ve followed so many herds of deer; or my fields, where so many Persian gazelles have dis tracted me? Oh, the poor person who doesn’t have any memories to think about in front of his hearth! Now, they’ve even taken away my hearth, what Godlessness, young man. Explain this to me, help me understand! What wrong have I done to anyone, what have I ru ined? I swear, everyday I try to remember my sins so I can repent, but I can’t think of anything; why has this happened to me now?

For whom? For two thousand years my family has been part of the nobility! So many people have been in my family – men, women! They feasted, they had good times, peasants, land – mountains and fields – they enjoyed a good life, more than they should have, and now the stick must break on me, a poor old man? Why do I have to carry their sins, me, all by myself? Am I not to be pitied? Is this just? “So, what sins have I committed, what kind of drinker of blood and destroyer of land do they think I am? There is only one sin that keeps me from being at peace; come, sit near me, ‘Let me tell you something sweet in exchange for bitterness.’” [FOOTNOTE: this is a Georgian proverb.] “Once, I got very sick during the 40 day Lent, and I was fighting with the souls of the dead. It’s amazing – at the same time I was not in this world, yet I was also fully conscious.” “Give me communion! I could only moo like a cow, and I heard my wife crying. Exhausted, I fell asleep again. I saw the other world! The gaping cracks of hell. A lake of tar. Three men stood in front of me. They were wearing short Georgian robes, and holding lists in their hands; one of them said:

‘Remember the sins you have committed!’ “I broke out in a sweat. I could barely speak:” ‘Nothing, your honor…’ ‘Think well, are you not a child of sin?’ ‘From my mother’s womb, your honor…’ ‘No, you must tell us exactly which sin you have committed.’ ‘Nothing, your hon…’ ‘Then good! Come this way,’ “one of them signaled to someone and suddenly our neighbor Sosiko stood up, dressed in a white gown. He’d been dead for three years, but I was still delighted when I saw my neighbor.” ‘Do you know him,’ “the first man asked me.” ‘Of course, I know him!’ “Sosika stood with his head bowed, both hands gathered on his heart.” ‘Now remember, what evil you have done,’ “the third man said to me, and all of a sudden, I remembered…”

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

“Once, in winter, I had harvested and bundled wood from my forest. I heard a rumor that someone was stealing my wood. I got up and went to the forest. As soon as I got there, I saw Sosika – there was no poorer peasant in the village than him. He was coming towards me, carrying my trees on his back.” “I fell into a rage.” ‘Aren’t you ashamed, Sosika! Do I deserve this from you? Give me the axe!’ [FOOTNOTE: The Georgian term is tsaldi, a hook-bladed axe.] “I screamed, and took away the axe. That’s all that happened…” “When have I committed another crime? I don’t know what else I have done! But the men of heaven reminded me of this sin.” “When I took away the axe from Sosika, I put it in the shed; then, quite a while later when I changed the thatching, the axe got lost in the reeds. Meanwhile, Sosika passed away. One blustery autumn day the wind blew the reeds off the shed, and I found the axe again. I put it in the attic.” ‘Return the axe to Sosika, and you are free,’ “the arbiters of the dead all yelled together.”

“As soon as I woke up, I screamed:”

GIORGI LEONIDZE Mounta in Grazing

‘The axe!’ “My wife started to cry; she thought I was going to cut someone’s throat!” ‘Why do you want the axe?’ “A neighbor sat down next to me.” “That’s how it was… weakened, I mumbled to him. Sosika’s son came to the ritual to bury the axe with Sosika.” ‘What’s going on, godfather, why has your illness lasted so long?’ “I told him about my dream, and gave him the axe… Look, the men of heaven reminded me of this sin! Maybe I’m being punished for this today?” “And once, I stole grapes when I was a child… what else have I done? I’ve drunk from a horn, and a bowl. I fell in love with a neighbor, but does that count?” Q’adori was lamenting, and at the same time was sipping foam from the red wine. Suddenly, frightened, as if in some one else’s voice, he shouted: “So, why do two thousand years of sins have to break down upon my back? Am I not to be pitied?”

Surprised, he was looking at me, frightened, as if they were going to throw him into boiling water. At just that moment, the pub owner closed and locked the door and windows. It started to thunder and lighten, the thunder sounded, once, twice, and then the earth began to shake, intense red sparks shot out from the thick black-blue clouds. And suddenly, there was a downpour. Layers of evening darkness grew, the space around us turned to tar. The sky was coming down, there was strange lightening; pounding and rattling was deafening on all sides. And suddenly, a terrifying sound, the booming and crashing of death, grew louder. It started to hail, and we heard the ceiling tiles and met al rattling. At first, the cobblestones on the road began to jump, then it seemed like real rocks started to roll… nature was exploding. We felt like ants, our power so small compared to the strength of nature. Everything was crashing into everything else, shattering. It was night, windy, and the mighty stream attacked us and threatened to destroy us. What could we do? What can a thin skinned person do except develop a tough hide?!

And Q’adori, over his glass of wine, continued to complain about the injustice of his fate, about why only he, absolutely alone, had to pay for the sins of his family, for those two thousand years; and no one answered him. Everything was crashing down around us. Who had time for Q’adori’s sins?

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Rezo Cheishvili /1934-2015/

THE TALE OF BICHIKO’S ILLNESS 26

The protagonist of the story suf fer s mental shock after the Sovie t purges of the 1930s. The author describes the tragic events of the time with a mixture of tragic and comic elements. His depiction of the character’s fate is far from a he roic narrative of the victim of the state terror, or his martyred life and death. Instead, the protagonist is presented as a debased, pathetic creature, often comic in his actions and reflections, which intensifies the absurdity of the cruelty brought about by the totalitarian regime. The story clearly demonstrates how the basest impulses thrive under a totalitarian system, how much power the bureaucracy gains and how the system is guided by personal, rat her than state interests of the people serving it loyally. The author’s acute realism shows that ordinary human values are incompatible with the principles of the Communist dictatorship.

[Abstract] For some reason I feel obliged to write this story, although I wonder if it will even be possible for a man such as myself, unversed in med icine and sociology. Apart from all other considerations I never ac tually made Bichiko’s acquaintance; I can recall only the man’s death and those dreary few years at the end of his life that passed by so joylessly. It was a beautiful, moonlit summer night, ruled by a silence so deep one could hear even the sound of leaves fluttering to the ground from the trees. As the cat ran carefully over the roof, as if afraid of cracking a tile, someone knocked on Bichiko Ereteli ’s door. “Who is it?” came a man’s voice from inside. “It’s me.” “And who are you?” “Tukvadze”.

‘Tukvadze? Where have I heard that name before?’ wondered the proprietor, nervous and confused, and after looking around in bewilderment for a moment, started to dress. It must have been well past midnight for he could hear an early cock crowing somewhere in the distance. The moon looked in through the open window, and as even the tiniest sounds faded away outside, Bichiko was seized by an inexplicable fear. He stared at the door, dumbstruck with terror, listening attentively to the silence. “Come on, man, open the door,” came the somehow familiar voice again after a short while. The voice did indeed feel familiar to the proprietor, and yet how could he possibly know who it belonged to? He opened the door and a tall, stout man walked into the room uninvited. “Hello again,” said the man. “Hello,” replied Bichiko, dumbfounded. The stout man – Tukvadze, as he had announced himself – was wear ing a khaki hat with a cockade and a long military service jacket with pockets, which was buttoned up to his neck. With his hands clasped

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

behind his back he walked up and down, inspecting the room by the pale light of the moon while the proprietor hurried to get dressed, pulling on a pair of high leather boots and tightening a belt around his waist. “So how have you been?” asked Tukvadze, looking askance at Bi chiko. Bichiko made no reply.

REZO CHEISHVILI The Tale of Bichiko’s Illness

The guest scrabbled at the wall with his hands until he found the light switch. The room was filled with blinding light from an elec tric lightbulb that quickly attracted hordes of gnats through the open window. Bichiko closed his eyes against the sudden blast of light, and then opened them slowly, only to see Tukvadze still standing there in front of him. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth with a slightly trembling hand. Tukvadze struck something in the wide pocket of his jacket, and brought a lit petrol flint lighter up towards his host’s face. Bichiko lit the cigarette and immediately felt calmer, while Tukvadze returned the lighter to his pocket and again clasped his hands behind his back. “Does anyone else live here with you?” “I have tenants in two of the rooms. I live in this one, and there’s an empty room back there.” “We already knew that…,” said Tukvadze as he kicked open the door to the adjacent room. He peered briefly into the darkness, but de termined that there was no need to enter and came straight back out, turning his attention to a large writing desk covered in sheets of printer’s paper and photographs. He looked at the objects carefully but did not pick anything up. “Put your coat on and come with me.” “I don’t need a coat. I’ll be fine as I am,” replied Bichiko unthinkingly. “Better to put your coat on, just to be sure,” said Tukvadze after a brief pause. “Do I need to take anything?” asked Bichiko, looking enquiringly at his guest.

“No. You don’t need anything,” replied Tukvadze, unable to meet his host’s gaze. Bichiko put on a worsted wool jacket over his riding breeches and his loosely fastened shirt, placed a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, and a watch in his pocket, and started walking towards the front door. As they stepped outside, the moon shone down on them from behind the house so that two long shadows appeared on the wooden stair case in front of them. Bichiko walked upright, perhaps even leaning slightly backward, holding his hat in his hands and shattering the silence with the sound of his long leather boots creaking down the steps. Several men stood like ghosts in the small, tidy courtyard. Catching sight of Bichiko, the ghosts let out a cough and dispersed as if they were merely out for a walk. Bichiko wondered how on earth they had managed to get through the locked gate without him noticing.

A black GAZ-M1 was parked on the street in the shade of a tall plum tree by the fence. The driver, catching sight of his passengers, start ed the engine. Tukvadze sat in front, Bichiko in the back. One of the other men sat next to him on his left and another on his right, while another disappeared completely, seemingly evaporating into the night and leaving Bichiko at a loss as to who he might be and where he had appeared from. As the car advanced down the hill Bi chiko cast his eyes over the empty street, the hedges and palisades, and then settled down in his seat, his back pressed against the leather upholstery, and looked straight ahead without saying a word. No body else spoke either. Meanwhile Bichiko’s tenants came out into the courtyard: evidently they had heard and seen everything but had not dared to show themselves, and now they (Shaliko and Vasiko) stood there in the garden, whispering with their arms spread wide, frightened and bewildered. At the time of these events Bichiko was thirty-seven years old, still unmarried and already an orphan. He lived all alone in the house that had belonged to his father, a stone building with a low roof, surrounded by a small but elegant courtyard. Bichiko was an engi neer: previously he had worked on a building site of a large p ower

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

REZO CHEISHVILI The Tale of Bichiko’s Illness

station, taking on responsibility as supervisor for one part of the site, and once the power station was built he was promoted to chief supervisor of an important municipal construction project. He was known to everyone in the city. As a child I would often hear people say “ Bichiko’s coming, Bichiko’s been in a fight, Bichiko’s out on the town, Bichiko’s gone and done himself proud – his picture’s in the paper.” For others it was Bichiko Ereteli’s carousing – replete with four horse-drawn phaetons – that remained more clearly etched in their memories. Horse-drawn phaetons were still common enough in those days not to provoke surprise, but when Bichiko came home after a night on the town I and the other children of our neighbour hood would scatter like a flock of pigeons, while the neighbours – young and old, male and female alike – gathered at their fences. Bichiko would stand bare-chested next to the coachman, with his hat placed on the seat. His comrades occupied the second and third carriages, and a group of musicians the fourth. Or perhaps it was the other way around, I can no longer say for certain. Even now I can see the horses as if they were here in front of me, panting and foaming at the mouth, steam rising up from their bodies as their hooves struck the cobblestones hard enough to cast up sparks. To the screeching sound of a zurna and the pounding of a nagara drum Bichiko would step down from his phaeton, say goodbye to his companions, and pat his horse. Then he would put on his long-peaked cap and walk into his garden with a deliberate, upright gait, raising his arms in greeting to the neighbours and flashing his gold tooth as he smiled. The next morning Bichiko would hurry off to work with a long roll of papers – sketches, perhaps – tucked under his arm. O ccasionally a car would come to collect him and drive him to work even on Sun days and holidays. There were rumours that he was engaged and would soon be married, and perhaps the rumours were true, but the marriage never took place, for this reason and that. Now I will clarify for you the relationship between Bichiko and Tukvadze, and indeed who this Tukvadze fellow was. Tukvadze wore his starched khaki hat pulled down to his eyes all year round. He was a powerful, imposing man with a round, heavy-set face and very small eyes. He wore a leather coat and kept his hands in his

ockets as he walked around. Just recently a venerable elderly gentle p man explained to me that in those days, when a man wore a leather coat and kept his hands in his pockets, it meant many things. Why it meant many things he did not say, but that was how Tukvadze walked around, and people were afraid of him for it. Maybe someone will ask why, and although it is not so difficult to provide an answer to this question, it is not particularly necessary either. Besides, the answer is not as interesting as it first seems.

Tukvadze and Bichiko had apparently known each other since they were young men. They were not friends, but for a while they had moved in the same circle, where unbridled youthful exuberance went unchecked and great value was placed on openness, a sense of justice, and arm strength. Tukvadze was the equal of anyone in the circle, but it was Bichiko who held sway, and Tukvadze, unable to reconcile himself to this fact, burned with concealed outrage. Time passed and the two of them went their separate ways, working and living life while struggling to let go of their youthful passions. To everyone’s surprise Tukvadze managed – how and by what route are no longer of importance – to obtain for himself a career that inspired respect, deference, and fear; and with that his and Bichiko’s paths in life diverged forever. Tukvadze gradually disappeared from the town too – he was glimpsed rarely, and needless to say he lost all con tact with his old circle. It was said that he was doing very important work for the country. Bichiko, meanwhile, lived and worked just as he had before: independently and free of worry. In the evenings he would still come out to the edge of his garden and stand there with his cohorts, and on catching sight of Tukvadze he would even smile at the commotion that Tukvadze’s appearance aroused among his acquaintances. The reason for his smile was that he simply no longer considered Tukvadze a man. Nevertheless it was in the restaurant where the last remaining thread connecting Bichiko and Tukvadze finally snapped, and I will now relay to you the manner in which this occurred. Needless to say I was not personally present at the event, but it was described to me in great detail by a highly honourable individual. Bichiko was, so I was told, out carousing with his cohorts. The group had taken over a table in the middle of the hall, and they made such a

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

captivating sight that the other patrons of the restaurant were trans fixed. Bottles of wine were being sent over from left and right as ges tures of admiration. Tukvadze entered the restaurant unexpectedly, and Bichiko’s com rades invited him over to their table, but Tukvadze refused, explain ing that he was in a hurry and did not have time to sit with them but was grateful for the invitation. He then sat down at a separate table with a short man. Nobody knew who the short, dark-skinned man was, but both he and Tukvadze were apparently wearing leather coats, and perhaps they really were in a hurry for they ordered some food and two quarts of wine without taking the coats off.

REZO CHEISHVILI The Tale of Bichiko’s Illness

The designated host at Bichiko’s table stood up and declared a toast to Tukvadze as “a true Georgian warrior, an honorable son of our nation”, whereupon the other members of the party stood up one by one. Tukvadze also stood up, and as he did so his cockaded hat, which he had placed in his lap, fell to the floor. The short man picked up the hat and deposited it on Tukvadze’s chair, while Tukvadze e xpressed his thanks for the generous toast and asked his admirers to please sit down, telling them that they should not to go to any trouble on his account for he was not worthy of such kind words. It was only then that Bichiko raised himself up from his chair. ‘Yes, I have to stand up – Georgian convention demands it,’ thought Tukvadze. ‘But why the hell I should stand before him? Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’ Bichiko apparently shouted something, whereupon the musicians launched into a dancing tune. Bichiko then lifted up the table, load ed with the munificence of seven men, with only his bare teeth, and started to dance. And that’s what happened that day in the restaurant. Tukvadze left soon after, incensed – as people said at the time and as I myself now understand – by Bichiko’s outrageous behavior. All this occurred on October 22nd of that year: the man who told me all about it remembered the date precisely because he had become father to a son that very day and was celebrating the joyous occasion with a banquet. It is said that from that day – October 22nd – right through to the following spring Tukvadze practiced lifting up a heavy table

with his bare teeth almost every day, and although I cannot say for certain whether this is true or not it is far from u nimaginable, being something that certain men are wont to do. The trick is to grasp the partition running down the centre of the table with one’s teeth while using one leg to support the middle, thus making the table easier to lift. Still the feat is rarely achieved, depending as it does not only on the health, knowledge, and strength of the performer, but various other factors such as the weight of the table and of course the gene rosity with which it has been laid. It was the middle of summer when they came to take Bichiko away. One event leads to another, and nothing happens without a reason, but whether or not there was any link between the small incident in the restaurant and Bichiko’s arrest and detention by the authorities, who can say?

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Guram Rcheulishvili /1934-1960/

THE LAST OF THE

ABENSERAJI

The story gives a delicate psychological description of the turmoil experienced by an Abkhaz young man who comes to a pain ful realisation that the pressure from the enormous Soviet empire becomes unbeara ble. As a representative of a small ethnic group, he feels that everything he consid ered his homeland and its familiar traits gradually vanish, thus he is alienated and frustrated. The protagonist’s spontaneous, even un conscious protest is a reflection of the Abkhaz national character in which knight ly traits prevail. The traditional chiv alrous morale, as strong as an instinct, impels him to defend a woman offended by visitors to his hometown. By doing so, he defends his honour as well. In order to better show the slightly archaic and ro mantic nature of his protagonist, the au thor adopts light irony, effectively using the inter-textual method: he reminds us of Francois Chateaubriand’s story The Last Abenserage, whose central figure is a per fect knight and romantic lover. Nowadays, as a result of the Russian oc cupation, Abkhazia has lost its historic ties with Georgia and its people face a realistic threat of being fully assimilat ed by their northern neighbour. In this respect, Guram Rcheulishvili’s story ac quires even more meaning and significance.

The pathway took the Abkhazian Achba to the Soviet tea plantation in Atoni. From here, the road led to the former monastery. Deep in thought, Achba, an aristocrat by descent, walked along the cobbled road. Somewhere in the distance, the sea became one with the sky; he looked at the sea’s beauty for a while, but the sunbeams were too bright, and he continued walking. Achba had spent 31 years of his life in the mountains of Abkhazia. From time to time he would come down to the lowlands to enjoy himself. He really loved champagne, and particularly liked it when the bottle opened, the cork shot out, and the sweet, intoxicating liquid poured forth. He was now thinking about Russian girls and alcohol. He had worked with the livestock almost the entire year. Now, he was thirsty for fun, and he came down from the mountains.

Tourists were milling about in the monastery courtyard. The Abkhaz was stealthily eyeing the full-breasted girls. He noticed a woman sit ting alone on a chair by the ramparts of the monastery… and he sat down next to her. Finally, he introduced himself with his bro ken Russian, and he was amazed at his own bravery. They decided to meet again at 10 o’clock in the evening. The woman left. The Abkhaz ian Achba sat, watching the sea. An enormous bay opened out before him. Up close, the water looked light. From here, the sea spread slowly out, and growing dark, got lost in the sky. The sun’s rays had already stretched out on the horizon. The sun itself, from fatigue, could barely hold itself up. Achba was sitting, still, and was watching the sun drowning itself. Dark colors had already settled on the shore. Evergreen trees were falling asleep, and the sun could see only their tops. Rows of poplars and eucalyptus stretched from the bay towards the mountains; the bay looked like a lake surrounded by a cave. On land, the mountainrange started abruptly, grew ever higher, reaching the Caucasus Mountains of Svaneti. On the opposite hill, a well built house stood in a pine f orest. The Abkhazian looked at it with a jealous eye, then again turned his gaze to the valley. Something displeased him, as if he had just caught a glimpse of the two-story Russian houses, painted white. His mood

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

went sour against his will. Nature lost part of its beauty. “I wish I knew where these houses are from, or who built them,” he thought to himself. He turned his gaze again to the sea. His mood was getting worse, but he didn’t understand why. He saw something unfamiliar, even in the sea, and again thought about those houses. The sunset was over. Darkness descended. Achba felt hungry, then remembered the champagne, and headed off on the path to the pub. The pub was empty. Achba himself opened the champagne with a pop, and smiling, drank the sparkling liquid. He was drinking the champagne, and eating lamb shish-kabobs. After he’d finished one bottle, he asked for a second, and this one, too, he opened with a pop. He really wanted to talk with someone. He started talking to the waiter who was napping at the table next to him; he, too, seemed to be Abkhazian. “Where are you from, gramps?”

GURAM RCHEULISHVILI The Last of the Abenseraji

The waiter straightened up, and blinked his eyes like a devil; he, too, was clearly in the mood to talk. “Me, I’m from Ochamchire, ten to twelve kilometers above Ocham chire, in Ghuli. You must know it.” “Of course, my livestock often goes there.” “Do you run livestock?” The waiter moved his chair closer. “Yes, I work with livestock, gramps. Have a glass.” Both of them were now in a good mood, and the waiter bought cham pagne on his own dime. Some drunks came into the pub. Achba lost his conversation partner, and continued drinking alone. Again, his mood changed. He looked into the valley. The white houses were clearly visible in the well-lit night. He shook his head, as if trying to chase away the reflections of the houses. Now, he was thinking of his country, Abkhazia. A thousand thoughts raced through his simple mind. He wanted to build a bridge that would stretch from mountain to mountain, and somewhere, out in the sea, to erect a tower. He was drunk; he couldn’t think straight, and only felt that from such a

bridge the white houses would look ugly. He went outside. His woman was standing under a tree, talking loudly with a man. The latter raised his voice and cursed in Russian, then moved forward to hit her. Achba started immediately, threw the blond Russian down with a single punch, but someone slapped him under his ear from behind, and he wobbled. He turned around quickly, and now they hit him from the side. This descendent of an Abkhaz noble was fighting bravely, and wishing he had his large knife. But he couldn’t defend himself against his opponents, who were surrounding him on all sides. He was soon exhausted. He decided to retreat, stepped backwards into a ditch, and fell. “Beat him,” yelled one of the drunks, and everything started spinning. Achba felt them kicking him, but it didn’t hurt. He covered his face with his hands.

“He’s probably dead,” repeated the same voice. The knoll emptied in a second. But the Abkhazian Achba was on the ground. He felt vague ly embarrassed, waved his hands nervously, and got up. Wobbling, he went down towards the valley, where he had a relative. He’d just thought of it now, that his cousin lived in one of those white hous es, and remembering those houses completely ruined his mood. He turned around, and went towards the sea. Lying down on the peb bles, he calmed down a little. A bit later, he fell asleep.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Shota Chantladze /1928-1968/

MARCH 9, 1956

The miniature story by Shota Chan tladze 9th March 1956 is an artis tic analysis of one of the most important events that took place in Soviet Georgia: a part of the Geor gian society, regarded Stalin, an ethnic Georgian, as a symbol of the national pride, so when Khrushchev denounced Stalin’s reign, it was perceived as an insult of Georgian people. Demonstrations were held in Tbilisi and many were killed dur ing their dispersion. The protests turned into a spontaneous expression of the Georgian patriotism, being an anti-imperial manifestation in their essence, but paradoxically they were defending the very person who ex panded and strengthened the Soviet empire, and who did not spare even his own homeland in order to subju gate it to this empire. The writer describes the events of 1956 as an absurd, tragic misunder standing, ironically depicting the blindness of the society in a tragic setting, the society which was una ble to tell an enemy from a friend, and whose patriotic exhilaration is still totalitarian in its nature – fanatic, xenophobic and aggressive.

March 9, 1956 “Down with the traitors!” “Russians, go home!” “Hurray for independence!” Shouts resounded. It was 1956. The peo ple had come out on the streets with banners. Words were written on the banners, words which the people were shouting. The roads were full of people: men, women, children. The w omenwere holding their children like weapons, with which they were both defending themselves and attacking. The people were moving f orward in a cha otic group, and stopping in at Parliament building. The people were singing: People, rise up sleeping people, Strike the enemy with a spear, Let the innocent blood that was shed Be our guide in battle.

Lovers of freedom Will be victorious, or perish! “Soldiers!” The people shouted. The army was moving in the streets, armed with tanks, rockets, large machine guns, and automatics. The army was not singing. The soldiers were walking in silence. Sadness and darkness lay in their eyes. The people were singing: Lovers of freedom Will be victorious, or perish! “Fire!” the commander ordered, and shots were fired. The people paused for a second. They stopped singing. Suddenly, maniacal shouting was heard: “Let’s hit them! Hurray!” The people thundered, and ran into the fire with their bodies. The commander halted the fire, and ordered the people to go home. The people rose up out of the asphalt, as if in a fairy tale. The people dispersed, and limped out into the city, limping in pain. They were

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

shouting: “Down with… Down with…” and they were singing: People, rise up sleeping people, Strike the enemy with a spear, Let the innocent blood that was shed Be our guide in battle. Lovers of freedom Will be victorious, or perish! A tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed poet was walking down the street. He had written this poem at the request of the protest organ izers. The poet was pleased with this poem, and even more so that the people were singing it. The poet loved the people, these people, who were singing his words. Lovers of freedom Will be victorious, or perish!

SHOTA CHANTLADZE March 9, 1956

The people were walking in the street, shouting: “Down with… Down with… Cheers!” Some of the orators were calling people to continue the protest. They were calling on them not to lose heart, to continue fighting for the freedom of their homeland. Suddenly, a hubbub swirled up in the people. They rushed to a place where someone had been stabbed with a knife. “A Russian!” The people shouted all together and gathered around that spot. The humming of rocks was heard. “Stone him! Stone him!” the people shouted. Sud denly, several armed soldiers appeared. The people scattered when they saw them. A tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed young man was lying there, carelessly thrown down on the street. He was no longer breathing. You could see the trace of a knife wound on his chest, blood was dripping from his forehead. “Pff… These Caucasians have killed one of ours!” A Russian soldier mumbled. The people were walking, singing: People, rise up sleeping people, Strike the enemy with a spear, Let the innocent blood that was shed

Be our guide in battle. Lovers of freedom Will be victorious, or perish! A tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed young man was lying there, carelessly thrown down on the street.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Revaz Inanishvili /1926-1991/

LARA

The character of Revaz Inanishvi li’s short story Lara is a former high-ranking official from the Na tional Security Office in Stalin’s times. Although he seems miserable after being trialed and imprisoned following Stalin’s death, he still is as terrible as ever. The punish ment did not change his essence, had no impact on his desperate loyal ty towards the regime and merciless attitude towards those opposing it. His fanaticism remained unaffected by the most natural human interac tion and feelings. On his deathbed, still engaged in detection and disclosure of enemies of the Soviet government, he resem bles a madman, but this madness is a logical finale of his ‘normal’ life. The fact that even the pun ishment could not awaken a human in this character is a heavy burden for his descendants – they live with the sense of guilt and shame towards the society. And all the while, the relevant aura for these figures is created by the author through using subtle overtones. As if almost deliberately these peo ple try to shape themselves so that they do not resemble their execu tioner father and grandfather in any way. Their humaneness, cultural sophistication and spiritual sensi tivity are the source of an indirect yet the most principal and pain ful conflict with him. In his turn, maybe above all because of this, the protagonist is punishing his de scendants for it.

[Abstract] We were Lara’s closest neighbours and she hadn’t mentioned any thing to us, so how the entire apartment block found out that Lara’s father was to be brought back that night I have no idea. It’s not as if people were standing on their balconies waiting for the event to be gin, but these things have a way of propagating like radio waves, and at eight o’clock, as soon as the Volga – the greenish Volga – stopped on the street outside our block, we were all stood at our windows, I – a little less eagerly than the others but brimming with curiosi ty all the same. First Julien got out of the left-hand side of the car, shoulders slumped and looking very tired, and then came the large, well-built man who had been sitting at the wheel. The man leaned halfway into the back seat as Julien looked on, glancing up at the building from time to time.

I had not seen Lara’s father at the peak of his public service career, although I had seen others of less exalted ranks. These men were not easy to forget, with the front pockets of their jackets stretched over their proud, puffed-up chests, their gun holsters, their boots as squeaky clean as a bridegroom’s, tied with new laces, and the distinc tive smell of their khaki military uniforms. I don’t think I ever saw them frowning – on the contrary they were always in good spirits, well-fed but never corpulent, active, with heavy, closely shaved jowls, and every one of them had the same habit of patting you on the jaw in a way that left you unsure whether you had been caressed with affection or slapped. Those who have suffered misfortune typically lack enthusiasm for their work, and these men always made sure that their affairs ran like clockwork. In our presence they were like cats toying with mice they have caught for nothing but their own self-satisfaction. The appearance of their cars was more frightening than the men themselves. My father had a relative in the same line of work – Giorgi, or Jora as he was known to his friends – and when his black car drove into our courtyard everyone would flee, while Jora himself climbed the stairs laughing merrily. I remember him loom ing in t owards me to pat my jaw, and it is from him too that I remem ber that peculiar smell – from him first, and then others. We were not boys anymore, but every time they passed by they would come up to us and pat us on the jaw, just to be sure. Jora toyed with my

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

f ather too: “They’re coming for you Akvsenti,” he would say. “They’re coming for you, no doubt about it.” And sure enough they did come for him, and to this day we have no idea why. My mother took me with her when she went to plead on my father’s behalf, saying “Jora, Sir, please tell me what this terrible thing is all about.” I had already turned fourteen, but Jora was just the same as ever, smartly dressed and full of cheer. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Go back home,” he said, patting me tenderly on the jaw as we left. Jora was a major, so I am certain you can imagine what soft fingers, what an exquisite smile a man ranked three ranks higher must have had…

REVAZ INANISHVILI Lara

Lara and the well-built driver shepherded Lara’s father into the build ing. The man appeared lost and completely confused, and to prevent him from falling Lara had one hand tucked under his armpit while supporting his head with the other. He was wearing a big, black cap that kept on sliding down so that the driver had to put it back on straight. My God, I will never forget it. And as for his eyes… I have heard that when a man is hanged his eyes bulge out, and although I have never seen such a sight I have always thought that men who are being strangled to death must have the same terrifying eyes as Lara’s father had that day. He turned his big, bulging eyes first this way then that, and it was truly terrifying. His mouth was hideous too: a deformed, black cavity. They guided the broken, dehumanised man upstairs. Julien stood as if he had temporarily forgotten how to put one foot in front of the oth er, then closed the car door and followed close behind his m other, his grandfather, and the well-built driver. They took the f ormer p risoner inside, locked the door, and no doubt put him straight to bed. The well-built driver then departed, leaving behind him a d isquieting si lence and stillness in the entrance to our block. Lara continued to avoid the neighbours even after her father was brought back. She seemed not to want to speak to anyone at all. Per haps she was simply too busy: early in the morning she would head off to the milk queue carrying the clinking empty bottles, then run to the market holding her eyeglasses in her hand, and later, on the

way home from work, she would either drop into the pharmacy or go to see one doctor or another. She had always been thin, but now she was getting even thinner, so thin that her shoulders were hunched up and her nose appeared to have increased in length. As Lara became thinner, Julien grew more despondent. I bumped into him several times, and every time he had a cigarette in his hand.

Naturally I and the other neighbours ran into her from time to time, but Lara never stopped for long and never uttered a word of complaint, despite having much to complain about. “My father was innocent”, she would declare. “He sacrificed his life for others, but who appreciates that now?” She devoted herself to the battle for his survival in the way that Georgian women – particularly daughters without siblings – are known to dedicate themselves to the care of their fathers. News of the former prisoner’s health leaked out – how and from where I do not know – and we learned that not only had his haemoglobin count had fallen to seventeen, but he was still unable to eat. Lara stood in the kitchen, making various kinds of juices and pu rees of liver and meat which she fed to him with a spoon as if he were a baby, holding his head up with her other hand. The boy Julien like wise took on the role of caregiver. Half of the time he stayed home from university, and the other half his mother took sick-leave from work while her colleagues covered for her. In this way his grand father was not left alone for even a minute. The battle went on for four months, maybe even longer, but in spring, at the beginning of April, the former prisoner appeared on the balcony. His clothes still hung down loosely from him, but there was no comparison with his arrival four months ago: he was standing on his own feet, holding his head up straight, and gripping the railing with his blackened hands as he looked out onto the world. Once he looked over at me, and as our eyes met I let out a small gasp, for his eyes remained as cold and heavy as mercury. Lara was liberated from her constant tension, and the warm smile that had always appeared on her lips whenever she bumped into one of us returned. The boy was liberated too. The former prisoner could now be left alone for hours at a time. I expect he probably laid on his bed reading, or perhaps he just stared at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Then, one day, when neither Lara nor Julien was at home, Lara’s fa ther came out of the apartment, went downstairs, walked down our street, turned onto Vazha Pshavela Avenue, and collapsed near the post office. People gathered round him, an ambulance was called, and he was taken to hospital, but nothing could be done for him and he died. Nobody recognized him, and he was not carrying his identi fication card. The only thing found in his pocket was a letter written on three sheets of paper and folded in four, which was addressed with only the name and patronymic of one of his superior officers and in fact more closely resembled an official report than a letter. There was nothing for it but to read the letter, and so the letter was read, whereupon everything became clear and Lara was informed… Afterwards everyone said it had been foolish to show Lara the letter, but by that time it was too late for she had already read it.

REVAZ INANISHVILI Lara

I have never seen the letter itself, but its content is now well known to many. The former prisoner had written – or more precisely reported – to his superior to inform him, first of all, of his name and achieve ments in the service of the state (although one would have thought these facts were already known to the superior officer), and then to describe the ungrateful manner in which he had been recompensed for this service by certain evil persons, how he had been tortured but had come through it all and was now back on his own two feet, and not only back on his feet but ready and willing to return to his pre vious position in the state apparatus and remain there until he drew his final breath. To corroborate his loyalty he informed his superior that he had a daughter employed as a doctor at a certain polyclinic and a grandson in his third year at the Polytechnic Institute, and that his daughter and her son spent their entire time, almost every day, morning and evening, listening to overseas broadcasts from hos tile countries with the help of a Japanese transistor radio they had acquired in Moscow through underhand means, after which they would, most certainly, disseminate the content of these broadcasts through their places of work and study in an attempt to corrupt the morals of the people of our nation. He added that every single one of us – young and old – must fight against these crimes, and that those found directly guilty must be isolated immediately from our society,

even if the wrongdoers are our own children and grandchildren, and if we do not act soon it will be too late, Sir, much too late… News of the affair spread throughout the country, and yet, Georgians being Georgians, the man’s funeral was well attended. I was there too, together with my entire family. Lara sat in mourning dress, her head bowed, and when I took her hand she looked up and thanked me, whereupon a faint, sorrowful smile passed across her lips, or so it seemed to me. I was so startled I lurched forward, crashing into my wife who walking towards me at the time. My wife looked at me anxiously, but given the location said nothing. As soon as Lara’s father was buried she exchanged apartments with another family and moved on again with her son to a new place somewhere near Mukhiani. I have no idea if that was where they stayed. Sometimes I would be so desperate to see her that my whole body would ache. All the better, then, that she was so difficult to track down. I never met them ever again, neither Lara nor her shy son Julien.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Jemal Topuridze /1947-1978/

ONCE UPON A TIME IN A POLICE STATION IN KUTAISI 56

The totalitarian regimes are character ized by a common trait: they shape dic tators and multiply small tyrants, ob viously more comical and miserable than their originals, nevertheless rather dangerous and horrifying. In his Once in the Kutaisi Police Jemal Topuridze pre sents one of those small-time tyrants. The short story shows how insecure and helpless a person is against the Soviet repressive machine, which, as a rule, appears in such a grotesque manner as the Soviet official to the character of the short story. The spiritual drama of the main character, caused by humilia tion of his dignity and his failed at tempt to fight the system, is even more painful as his opponent is a nonentity in terms of intellect and spirituality, practically an idiot, a dummy stuffed with an inferiority complex and resent ment. He is an organic synthesis of the comic and fearful elements that deter mine his somewhat impressive personali ty. In a way, he is characterized with a peculiar, pathological artistry, which is manifested in the satisfaction and pleasure he derives from his authority.

[Abstract] “Who are they?!” asked the lieutenant, perking up with curiosity and pleased to have something new to deal with. “They’re not with us!” answered Nugzaria, already halfway through the door. “They were walking in front of the others and we thought we should bring them in, Sir, just in case!” “We are from Tbilisi,” I began, in the politest tone I could muster. “We’re here for teaching practice. We’re staying at the Pedagogical Institute dormitory. We were out at a restaurant tonight, and as we were walking back they brought us here. We don’t know who the others are.” “You don’t know them?” asked Lieutenant Zaliko with the utmost seriousness, and started walking up and down the duty officer’s room. “No, Sir!” “Not even slightly?”

“No, Sir! Not even slightly!” “Perhaps one of them seemed familiar to you.” “No, Sir. I have no idea where they came from.” “And you’re from Tbilisi?” “Yes.” “Truthfully?” “Yes, we really are from Tbilisi. Go ahead and check up on us if you’d prefer.” “You come from Tbilisi and think you’re all high and mighty, do you?!” roared Lieutenant Zaliko, exceeding all expectations. “I’ll put you away until you rot!” “Sir, we…” I began, but before I could reach the end of the sentence I felt a terrible blow on my nose. It came so quickly I did not even see the hand that had dealt it. As I watched the stars dancing in front of my eyes drops of warm liquid came spilling down from my nostrils onto my lips and chin. I opened my eyes. The idiot was yelling some

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

thing at me, but I couldn’t understand him. All I kept thinking was how much the enraged lieutenant in front of me looked like a sheepdog. I could not get the stupid thought out of my head. He appeared to be asking me something, but I was in no state to reply. The hand struck me again, this time on my ear. My ear began to ring, and the ringing quickly spread to my other ear. As I watched his mouth moving and the blood vessels swelling up on his face, all I could think was how much he looked like a sheepdog.

JEMAL TOPURIDZE Once upon a Time in a Police Station in Kutaisi

Another blow came and I felt my head strike the wall. At the next one I crashed into something soft. One of the policemen had put his hand up against the wall, surreptitiously so that the lieutenant wouldn’t see, to stop my head from colliding with the stone. Then everything around me went dark. Having lost consciousness, I was granted a short reprieve. I have no idea how long it was before they brought me round. All I knew was that I was sitting on a chair facing a red table, that my head and nose were hurting like hell, and that my shirt was covered in blood. I was completely drenched in water. The lieutenant was sitting on the other side of the red table, flanked by two others. They were all in plain clothes, and yet they looked so much like each other it was difficult to tell them apart. Gaga stood next to me. There was no longer anyone in uniform in the room. “Are you alright?” asked Gaga, who had evidently mentioned his father just at the point where his beating was about to begin and as a result had been left untouched. As for the rotten bastard sitting in front of me, I wanted to tell him to go do something involving his mother, but I refrained from swearing at him when I saw him hold ing up my passport, my student identity card, and my Komsomol pocketbook and shuffling them like a pack of cards. “What do you want from me? Why did you hit me?” I stammered. “Shut up or else you’ll get hit again! You’re lucky your friend’s father is who he is. There’s a car waiting for you both. Now get out of here!” I was choked with rage. I stood up and staggered a little. Gaga came to my aid, but I pushed him away with my hand. “I’m not going anywhere!”

“Oh you’re not, are you?” “No, I’m not.” Even now I have no idea why I wanted to stay there. There was no reason for it – I just wanted to do something to protest my treatment. The lieutenant pressed a button and someone entered the room. “Take him downstairs! Give that corpse we’ve got down there a bit of a wash, it’ll sober him up a bit.” “You can’t take me anywhere!” “He’s asking you calmly, son,” said one of the policemen. “Don’t go making him any angrier than he already is.” “You call this calm?” I asked, placing a hand on my bloody shirt. “Listen, boy, a million men pass through here. What am I supposed to do?” asked the lieutenant in a placatory tone. Gaga’s father had fulfilled his function. “The only way out is to have a “big shot” for a father, then?” I asked.

He appeared to take the question as a conciliatory gesture and tried to make a friendly joke. “It certainly helps.” “So you figure out which of those million guys is the big shot and kneel down in front of him?” He had not expected to be insulted so brazenly in front of his colleagues, and he flipped out like a little boy. “Are you fucking with me?” “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” I replied, again stopping myself from insulting his mother. “I’ll put you away until you rot, son! I’ll let him go and put you away until you rot!” He indicated Gaga with his eyes as he stood up. “I’ll put you away until you rot!” was evidently his favourite phrase. Maybe he swore at himself sometimes too: “I’ll make you forget what blue sky looks like!”

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

“You can’t do a thing to me!” “I’ll do whatever the hell I like with you, boy! I’ll send you down for seven years, you little shit!” One of the policemen signaled at me with his eyes to keep my mouth shut. The lieutenant stood up and picked up a glass decanter filled with water. “You see this jug? Take a good look at it. What I’m going to do now is lift up this jug and smash it over my own head. Then I’ll put your fingerprints all over it. And then I’ll make sure all these good, honest people here confirm that it was you who smashed the jug over my head. And finally I’ll appoint an expert who will testify that you were drunk.” “And what would you do about him?” I asked about Gaga. “He’ll say we let him go before you.” “No he won’t!” “He’ll say it.”

JEMAL TOPURIDZE Once upon a Time in a Police Station in Kutaisi

I didn’t look over at that bastard Gaga. He was silent except for the sound of his sobs. My own tears burned the back of my throat as I swallowed them. “You’d never be able to smash it over your own head anyway.” “You see these?” replied the lieutenant and pushed his hair back with one hand to reveal three open wounds. I felt sick. “This one is from a glass jug, and the other two are from an iron bar, a kind of truncheon. He’s still locked up now, the stubborn fool.” I desperately wanted to shout out “Do it, then!” But instead I ended up doing the thing I was most afraid of doing. I started to cry. I cried again as I walked back to the dormitory alone that night, thinking a thousand thoughts. I thought about those boys for whom receiving a beating was just one more normal event in the course of the day. I thought about that bastard Gaga, and about the visitor who had acted so coolly, as if everything was fine. I thought about the lieutenant, and wondered how it was possible for the earth to bear such people as him and Gaga. I wondered how such b utchers

were able to live. How could they beat and kill people? How could they send the innocent – and indeed the guilty – to prison and then go home to a delicious dinner with their wives and children, all the while complaining about their hard day at work? I wondered if they ever felt remorse for the sins they committed, at times when they were alone and left to their thoughts? Did they love their children? I wondered how the earth could possibly bear so much sin. All the way home I pictured the corpse concocted by the lieutenant at the police station but in all probability lying somewhere at this very m oment, deserted, semi-naked, and alone. I had been defiled, beaten, and insulted. I felt horribly wronged, abandoned, rejected by the entire world. I wanted nothing more than to die.

When I got back the boys were sleeping. I lay restlessly on my bed until dawn, and it was only as the dawn broke that I recalled N ugzaria, who had called out “They’re not with us!” as he ran out through the door. I remembered the policeman who had held out his arm to meet my head so as to lessen my pain. I remembered my mother, my grandfather, my Vazha and my Irina, and without even meaning to, I smiled. Not long after that – not long at all – I fell asleep.

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

Nugzar Shataidze /1944-2009/

THE OPPOSITE BANK 64

The first stage of the post-Soviet Georgian history was no less tragic than the history of Soviet Georgia itself. The regime left a void be hind, where establishing a new, vi able social reality proved extremely difficult. Through precise details, Nugzar Shataidze’s short-story The Opposite Bank offers a profound description of the deadly atmosphere predomi nating in Georgia on the verge of the Soviet and post-Soviet periods. What gives the story its originality and creates its essence is the motif of ‘irony of fate’: the despairing reality, driving towards a deadlock, mocks a person’s even the most mod est dreams, however pathetic they might be. By the ‘irony of fate’ all roads that are meant to be leading towards life, in reality turn out to be heading towards death. The lives and destiny of the character, depicted with the author’s strong, yet implicit empathy, are elevated to a higher level of generalization throughout the narrative.

At the end of November the weather improved – it warmed up. At night, a thick fog would descend from above, from the hills of Ts’q’lu leti, settle in low, drizzle, and dampen the asphalt. In the morning, the wet asphalt would rise up and form into fog on the other side of the Ts’mopapkhuli ridge; the area was veiled in fog, you could no longer see the buildings where people lived, the entire quarter fell silent, you could barely hear the humming sounds of humans and cars. With their backpacks on, like ghosts, children would walk in the mist to school. But when the sun came out, the fog lifted and the surroundings, pre viously covered in mystery, were revealed: the tall buildings, their windows dark like night because of the lack of electricity, stood na ked; below, the city was like a shadow – also without electricity, ex posed. The cars hurried along, their tires swishing on the wet asphalt. The people, waiting for transportation, stood like a black, [gulchab orotebuli] cloud by the bus stop.

Mr. Ilo no longer waited for the bus; he would usually walk to the metro, and it was quite close to there, maybe five kilometers. This didn’t bother him: in the first place, he was saving money; in the second – going on foot seemed beneficial to his health; and third... there was one bad side to travelling like this every day – his shoes were wearing out. Mr. Ilo wore big boots with turned up toes, which he’d found in his basement, washed well, covered with black oil and polished – he’d made them look completely new. He took a short cut down to the metro. This way led past an aban doned main road, a non-working boiler factory, a laundromat, a gas station – this, too, abandoned, with broken windows; it led by a rub bish heap and passed down towards the deep valley. A small creek gurgled in the ravine. The frothing water, crashing, jumped over the large boulders, smashed into pieces, then gradually grew quiet, and finally, when it became flat, calmly flowed into the river bed lined with broken slivers of rock. On both sides of the ravine a variety of trees and bushes flourished; in the spring, tall grass came up, and a thousand kinds of flowers blossomed. Mr. Ilo didn’t know their names, although he recognized

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

a few of them, for example the apricots, which for some reason grew profusely there, along with the almonds and blackberry bushes. In spring, of course, he also recognized the poppies. Recently, the residents had divided this side of the ravine into very small plots, fenced them in, and were working the land. In those plots they planted potatoes and greens, and also raised tomatoes and eggplants, and sowed carrots and beets. Mr. Ilo would look at those vegetable gardens attentively. When he saw the well cared-for furrows, or the tall bushes bowed down with ripe tomatoes, he was very happy, and praised their owners in his heart. From time to time he would look over an empty place, and thing: what would happen, if I fenced it in, and in the spring dug it, and I, too, built a small veggie garden. In principle, it wasn’t a diffi cult thing – in the factory, where he worked as the head power en gineer, he could easily find iron pipes and wire nets, but this dream would remain forever an empty dream, because Mr. Ilo was not a practical person.

NUGZAR SHATAIDZE The Opposite Bank

At work, when he would sit idly in his small office, he would often remember that ridge, the small river, the apricot and almond trees. And he would remember the vegetable gardens as well. Because of the energy crisis and the lack of materials, the factory wasn’t working, and the workers were on unpaid leave; only the technical personnel were getting a small salary, in the form of coupons, and because he was afraid of losing his job and this salary, Mr. Ilo was forced to go to the factory every day. He would go, open the door of his room, sit there fully dressed, with his hat pulled down low on his head, and read the newspaper. Some times, he would play chess with the main engineer or his deputy. The guys from the productions department would join them, and they’d start to remember the old times, when wine cost a single ruble, bread 30 kopeks, and good BBQ meat three rubles. In their dreams they were giving a party with shashlik, boiled chicken, cheese from Tusheti, all enhanced with piping hot khachapuri. They would drool at the thought.

Sometimes, vodka, twice distilled from chacha would appear; they would each buy a potato pasty in the factory’s cold dining hall, drink up, grow cheerful, and warmth and momentary happiness would enter their hearts. They would talk about a thousand things, gradually become excited, and build future plans – you could hear the words: “privitisation,” “joint-stock company,” “foreign investment,” “joint enterprise,” etc.. At night, tired and slackened, he would follow along the edge of the ravine. In the dark, he could scarcely navigate the road toward his home. He could hear the noise of the river from below. By now, he was already afraid of that ravine, that river. Weakened, drunk on vod ka, he had difficulty going up the slope. Sometimes he would stop, take out tablets of nitroglycerin from his pocket, and put a drop on his tongue. He’d stand, rest, and the cold breeze would caress his face.

Finally, as it was, he would make it up, reach his house. He even stopped once in front of the darkened building, put yet another drop on his tongue, and went up the stairs. In the dark, he counted the floors carefully. His wife was sitting in the kitchen, illuminated by the light of a kerosene lamp, and smoking. The children were sleeping. The sooty tea-kettle was bubbling softly on the kerosene stove. Mr. Ilo glanced stealthily at his wife’s thin shoulders, her eyes with their dark circles, then sat down close to her, took up a cigarette, and felt like telling her about that privatization, joint-stock company, or joint enterprise, but he couldn’t utter a word, he would sit, and silently fiddle with the cigarette stuck between his fingers. In the morning, that area was again enveloped in fog, nothing was visible. The cars moved noiselessly in that fog, the people waiting for transportation were standing, without a word, at the bus stops. Mr. Ilo was again walking: he went past the abandoned boiler factory, the dry cleaner, the gas station, he walked past the garbage heap, and he passed by the edge of the ravine, in the soft path blazed through the mud. He walked, and looked at the former vegetable gardens,

STORIES ABOUT SOVIET GEORGIA

shriveled from the cold, the bushes, emptied of tomatoes, and the rows of beets, still shimmering with green, and the listless cabbages. Once, on Thursday, November 24th, as usual, he was walking along the edge of the ravine. He was walking slowly, he would stop some times and look carefully at the bean tendrils stuck in the wire mesh, the dark red leaves of the cherry tree, and the snails, crushed in the mud. He passed by the gardens stupefied by the sadness of late fall, walked by an abandoned storage building, a swimming pool filled with garbage, and went up to a patch of land covered in dried, yel lowed grass. From there, the other side of the ravine was visible: a plot of land, un fenced, smallish, jutting out like rocky crag at the bottom of a sheer cliff; two apricot trees were growing there. Recently, he had been looking exactly at that place, and in his mind had already

NUGZAR SHATAIDZE The Opposite Bank

fenced it in, and put up a small hut inside. Now he was thinking that it would be good if he could put in a wooden bench and table; he would sit on that bench, lean his elbows on the table, and that’s how it would be... The leaves of the apricot tree were turning yellow – those leaves lay on the ground, on the still-green grass. The river flowed around the rocky crag. The cold, transparent water flowed calmly, the grassy bank, the collapsing cliff, the two apricot trees reflecting in it faintly; and everything there – the earth, the apricots, and at the head of the river floated a flock of thin, pallid fog, which slowly, scarcely notice ably disappeared; and when the rays of the sun that had unexpected ly reached that spot, everything seemed dappled orange, then faded between his eyes and hand, faded, and disappeared. Suddenly, a black raven jumped out, came out from that side, and with a flap of its wings flew to the trees; it flew up high, completely high, and cawing, it headed towards the city, covered in fog, and Mr. Ilo felt an amazing sense of relief, both relief and joy: it was strange, but it seemed that there, on the other side, a place set aside just for him was being freed up, and it was being freed up by the wish of that same side, and by a mysterious will.

It was as if some kind of force was pulling him there, as a vacuum sucks air, so the empty space was sucking Mr. Ilo, and he felt how gradually he was disintegrating, falling to pieces, how very, very slowly he was filling up his proper place, in some way he was going from here â&#x20AC;&#x201C; to there... This strange, unbelievable sensation did not last long. In that place where Mr. Ilo stood earlier, in the grass, the prints of his big boots with their turned up toes appeared. The grass was becoming smooth, trembling, straightening up. Gradually, those footprints disapÂ peared. That day, Mr. Ilo no longer went to the factory.

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