LAST LETTER (from Hope Abandoned)

This letter was never read by the person it is addressed to. It is written on two sheets of very poor paper. Millions of women wrote such letters—to their husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, or simply to sweethearts. But next to none of them have been preserved. If such things ever survived here, it could only be owing to chance, or a miracle. My letter still exists by chance. I wrote it in October 1938, and in January I learned that M. was dead. It was thrown into a trunk with other papers and lay there for nearly thirty years. I came across it the last time I went through all my papers, gladdened by every scrap of something that had survived, and lamenting all the huge, irreparable losses. I read it not at once, but only several years later. When I did, I thought of all the other women who shared my fate. The vast majority of them thought as I, but many dared not admit it even to themselves. Nobody has yet told the story of what was done to us by other people—by those selfsame compatriots whom I do not wish to see destroyed, lest I thereby come to resemble them. Their present-day successors, the spiritual brothers of those who murdered M. and millions of others, will curse on reading this letter—why didn’t they destroy the bitch (that is, me), they will ask, while they were about it? And they will also curse those who have so “relaxed vigilance” that forbidden thoughts and feelings have been allowed to break to the surface. Now again we are not supposed to remember the past and think—let alone speak—about it. Since the sole survivors of all the myriad shattered families are now only the grandchildren, there is in fact nobody left to remember and speak of it. Life goes on, and few indeed are those who wish to stir up the past. Not many years ago it was admitted that some “mistakes” had been made, but now it is denied again—nothing wrong is seen with the past. But neither can I speak of the past as a “mistake.” How can one thus describe actions that were part of a system and flowed inexorably from its basic principles?

Instead of an epilogue, then, I end my book with this letter. I shall do what I can to see that both book and letter survive. There is not much hope, even though our present times are like honey and sugar compared with the past. Come what may, here is the letter:

 

22/10(38)

Osia, my beloved, faraway sweetheart!

I have no words, my darling, to write this letter that you may never read, perhaps. I am writing it into empty space. Perhaps you will come back and not find me here. Then this will be all you have left to remember me by.

Osia, what a joy it was living together like children—all our squabbles and arguments, the games we played, and our love. Now I do not even look at the sky. If I see a cloud, who can I show it to?

Remember the way we brought back provisions to make our poor feasts in all the places where we pitched our tent like nomads? Remember the good taste of bread when we got it by a miracle and ate it together? And our last winter in Voronezh. Our happy poverty, and the poetry you wrote. I remember the time we were coming back once from the baths, when we bought some eggs or sausage, and a cart went by loaded with hay. It was still cold and I was freezing in my short jacket (but nothing like what we must suffer now: I know how cold you are). That day comes back to me now. I understand so clearly, and ache from the pain of it, that those winter days with all their troubles were the greatest and last happiness to be granted us in life.

My every thought is about you. My every tear and every smile is for you. I bless every day and every hour of our bitter life together, my sweetheart, my companion, my blind guide in life.

Like two blind puppies, we were, nuzzling each other and feeling so good together. And how fevered your poor head was, and how madly we frittered away the days of our life. What joy it was, and how we always knew what joy it was.

Life can last so long. How hard and long for each of us to die alone. Can this fate be for us who are inseparable? Puppies and children, did we deserve this? Did you deserve this, my angel? Everything goes on as before. I know nothing. Yet I know everything—each day and hour of your life are plain and clear to me as in a delirium.

You came to me every night in my sleep, and I kept asking what had happened, but you did not reply.

In my last dream I was buying food for you in a filthy hotel restaurant. The people with me were total strangers. When I had bought it, I realized I did not know where to take it, because I do not know where you are.

When I woke up, I said to Shura: “Osia is dead.” I do not know whether you are still alive, but from the time of that dream, I have lost track of you. I do not know where you are. Will you hear me? Do you know how much I love you? I could never tell you how much I love you. I cannot tell you even now. I speak only to you, only to you. You are with me always, and I who was such a wild and angry one and never learned to weep simple tears—now I weep and weep and weep.

It’s me: Nadia. Where are you?

Farewell.
Nadia.

 

(1974)