«Once I get out of the colony — I'm getting a divorce. I call her, and she leaves the phone to her mother and goes off to get a manicure!»

Photo: Belsat

«The most terrible feeling in the colony is absolute loneliness in which you find yourself. There are many people, you interact with them — even if they are forbidden to interact with you. But you are still alone. And there is no one to cry to.

Perhaps due to my age, after a year and a half in solitary confinement (SHIZA), I've gotten used to crying into a pillow. And it's preferable to do it at night, when no one sees you. Especially the youth. You don't want to appear weak.

And you can't really cry in letters. The letter will be received by the person closest to you — your wife. And it's much harder for her there than for you. Nothing depends on you. But you depend on her. Completely. Like a small child torn from her arms — and taken nowhere. And our wives nurture us, trying to do everything so that we don't feel lonely. And — most importantly — so that we don't feel their burden, their pain. We might guess it — yes, but not take it upon ourselves.

And you yourself must try not to burden her.

So you look for a shoulder to cry on.

Perhaps because of my age, I seemed like such a 'vest' to many. They talked to me not only about books. D. D., a grown man, father of three children, suddenly became hysterical:

— I'll get out — I'll get divorced! No, I'll just write to her that we're getting divorced!

— What's wrong, D.?!

— She knew we would have calls yesterday. I call her, but she left the phone with her mother and went to get a manicure! Traitor!

He had a wonderful wife. Everything D. D. told me about her indicated: an intelligent, strong woman, in love with him, who also had enough firmness to keep her husband in check so he wouldn't drink. And he resisted this — when he was free. So, he wrote a few posts (drunk or sober, he didn't say) — and got his four years. He served it conscientiously, was released on parole. We mostly talked about books with him. But then the man got carried away.

— Well, she went to get a manicure. What if the manicurist didn't have another time? She left the phone with her mother so you could talk to her.

— Betrayed!

— Listen, why are you whining? A grown man — and you're almost sobbing! You can't be like that. Will you put yourself in her shoes?

He didn't think that he had practically dumped three children, an unfinished house, and, one might say, himself on top of his wife! And so we walk with him through the industrial zone, the 'promka', and I explain this to him.

But do I have the moral right to explain? My wife warned me: 'Enough of your 2010, don't get into trouble anywhere!' And in April 2021, after my arrest, not knowing what was with me, where I was, she dropped everything and rushed to Moscow to call hospitals and run through morgues, fearfully staring at the faces of strangers' deceased who matched the descriptions.

In Ethel Lilian Voynich's novel «The Gadfly», Cardinal Montanelli calls for reflection on the suffering of God the Father, who gave his Son to torment. I remember how the unforgettable Nikolay Simonov played this scene in an old film adaptation… And we have wives, forced to give us up, but — they didn't betray us, didn't give up themselves, bore our grief like their own yoke on their shoulders…

Simonov! Yes!

— D., when was the last time you told your wife you loved her at all?

And he fell silent.

Probably recently. She came to him — as to all of us whose 'visits' weren't taken away — for one day instead of three. But in one day you barely manage to talk about household matters, and about love… About love, perhaps only in letters…

Perhaps in my entire life, I myself haven't said as many words of love to my beloved woman as I've written about them in letters from the colony…

Simonov!

— D., try to recite some poems to her over the phone. For example, Simonov's «Wait for me».

— What kind of poems?

And I read him the only poem I've been reciting from memory for the last three years — reciting into my pillow, through dry tears. I suddenly remembered it: the hysterical memory of the war, which our 'educators' tried to arouse in us, wasn't very conducive to talking about love. They told us about hatred, about sacrifices. But meanwhile, one must talk about love. Always. Especially in a situation where such love is so lacking.

And in the eyes of the grown man D. from a city large by Belarusian standards, but entirely provincial, I see the glimmer of tears about to spill.

We know that our wives are waiting for us. Just as we know that not all our letters reach them and not all their letters are passed by censorship to us. And Simonov's lines acquire a special meaning: «Жди меня, и я вернусь…» (Wait for me, and I will return…)

One must feel that there is somewhere and someone to return to.

And a week later, D. will walk around with the first volume of works by Stalin's 'literary falcon' in his hands, reciting his only poem that miraculously survived in my own memory:

And he will read her these lines! He will spend precious minutes of a phone conversation on it — seven minutes instead of the ten allotted to everyone else!

I don't know if she was happy. But he, it was clear from the completely different sparkle in his eyes, was happy.

And I sent my beloved poems. Not in every letter. And not every letter with poems reached her.

In one of them, I transcribed Konstantin Simonov's poem from memory. Just as soldiers from trenches and dugouts transcribed those same lines and repeated them like an incantation…

But one of my poems — not from the colony, actually, but from solitary confinement (SHIZA) — still reached her. It was an imitation of either Burns or Bagritsky… The problem with philologists is that they (except, perhaps, Uladzimir Karatkevich and Alexander Blok) are weak poets. Well, or I'm just poorly acquainted with the poetic works of other philologists and judge solely by myself, and that with bias.

It's also — about returning. To the one who waits.

Все есть в нашей жизни — и дождь, и снег,
И радость есть, и беда.
Из города прочь ушел человек —
Но зачем ушел и куда?
Вечер ветрен был и пепельно сер,
И никто не жалел о нем.
И лишь колокол пел: «Ах, вернись, лорд-мэр,
Возвращайся в родимый дом!»

Много этой истории было лет,
И из памяти стерся, как сон,
Мимолетный, как оказалось, след,
Что потомкам оставил сэр Джон.
Все сотрется, сколько ты им ни снись,
Растает дымком на ветру.
Но призыв колокольный: «Домой вернись!»
Века никак не сотрут.

Но он шел упорно навстречу ветрам,
По тоннелям шел и мостам,
Не встречал нигде рассвет по утрам
И ночами не спал, хоть устал.
И неслось ему вслед, сквозь стужу и зной
В гуле дней и щелканье минут:
«Виттингтон, вернись, о, вернись домой,
Где тебя и любят, и ждут!

Не спеши вперед — оглянись назад,
Вспомни, что ты оставил там,
Где в зелени глаз мерцает слеза
И стекает роса по листам.
И пускай ты упрям, решителен, горд,
Суд вершишь и меняешь закон,
Тебя любят и ждут не за то, что ты — лорд,
А за то, что ты просто — Джон.»

Он услышал голос ее любви,
Растворенный в его крови.
Он замедлил шаг, обернулся назад
И вернулся к своей любви.
И встречал его звоном колоколов
Серебристо-серый металл…
И она обняла его молча, без слов.
И лорд-мэром он, к счастью, не стал.

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