PERSONAL COLUMN

Entertaining Mr Kuznetsov

AUBERON HERBERT

Four days after his escape from the Soviet authorities, Anatoli Kuznetsov was taken by David Floyd, of the 'Daily Telegraph', to stay at Pixton Park, home of Mr Auberon Herbert, the well-known Somerset sporting figure, near Dulverton. Mr Herbert, who served as a Corporal of Uhlans in the Polish Black Brigade during the war, is a past president of the Anglo-Ukrainian Society. At Pixton, where Mr Kuznetsov spent a fortnight, it was thought that he would be safe front the Soviet secret police. It is a largish Georgian house of some fifty rooms, set in 4,000 acres of wild and beautiful stag- hunting country, and provided his first pro- longed taste of an English home. For sec- urity reasons, the BBC '24 Hours' interview with Mr Kuznetsov was not broadcast from Pixton, but from the neighbouring house of Mr Herbert's sister, Mrs Evelyn Waugh.

Anatoli Kuznetsov made a very good im- pression on me at our first meeting. Com- munication, admittedly, was not all that easy, as I unhappily speak Ukrainian but not Russian; and while Anatoli speaks excellent Ukrainian, his is fine and classical, whereas mine is of the Galician variety, and not as good as I would have people believe. How- ever, David Floyd most amply filled in the crevices in mutual understanding. Kuznet- sov arrived at my home, three or four days after his choice of freedom, through Floyd. I am a little in the dark as to the exact timetable of that first crucial afternoon. His moment of separation from Soviet control happened during a libidinous expedition to the strip-clubs of Soho, in the company of his KGB parasite-companion. According to Anatoli this man was a really detestable figure; he says that the company of a police spy is a squalid nuisance at the best of times, but that to be inflicted with a pedan- tic bore brimful of literary pretensions is something beyond endurance.

Soho apparently presents a good oppor- tunity of dispeniing with one's surveillance. In the Victorian perspective of the Soviet authorities, Swinging London measures up to Gay Paree. The KGB is prepared to wink a permissive eye, perhaps in the not un- reasonable hope that the Soviet writer may find material for a purple patch on western decadence in the purlieus of Shaftesbury Avenue. At any rate, this is where Anatoli's search for freedom started—rather unprom- isingly. I have reason to believe that he first paid two unsuccessful calls on British official quarters—not the Home Office—only to receive rebuffs of a kind which might well have deterred a less single-minded and cour- ageous man. However, from one of these visits he elicited the name of David Floyd. Equipped with a provident supply of six- pences, he succeeded in telephoning Floyd, and then made his way to Highgate.

After a brief sojourn in the Floyd home, he moved into the orbit of Security. His account of the good sense, the kindliness and intelligence with which he was treated makes heartwarming hearing, particularly at a time when so many aspects of our n tonal life are disappointing. When Anatoli's friends—and friends they are—in Security released him, they left his movements to the discretion of David Floyd, who did us the

honour of bringing him to West Somerset forthwith. He was, I think, eager to get to a country home, since like most Ukrainians he is by disposition a countryman. He left Kiev in order to advance his literary career by living in Moscow. Then he abandoned Moscow because he could not stand the place, and, as a fervent Tolstoyan, he made his home at Tula, with Yasnaya Polyana ready to hand. I think that, given a little time, he would adjust himself to the ways of English country life very happily and fully.

The key figure in his personal back- ground is, I believe, his grandmother, who was not only a washerwoman but also a healer. She had him secretly baptised, as his parents were party zealots, and he des- cribes himself as a 'Christian by desire,' though I doubt if he has had the oppor- tunity to pick up very much theology. He asked David Floyd what the difference is between Catholics and Protestants; in pres- ent circumstances, with Ulster in mind, this is a question which makes one blush when it is asked by someone fresh from the slough of atheist despond.

Like other hotnines sovietici who arrive in the west in early middle-age—Anatoli celebrated his fortieth birthday on 18 Aug- ust—he is desperately eager to discover the joys of youth which never came his way. During his stay with us his nose was to the grindstone night and day (but principally at night: by preference he wrote from dusk to dawn). During these work periods he would not eat, but was nothing loath to infuse instant coffee powder into the barley water provided to sustain his nocturnal vigil—this brew, be it understood, being compounded stone cold.

During the daylight intermissions, he wanted above all to gain a mastery over the motor car, and was transformed into Toad of Toad Hall. David Floyd courage- ously accompanied him on his first attempts on our hazardous and neglected carriage drive. After about three hours tuition, he was driving solo, and there is no doubt in my mind that once he finds out about the third and fourth gears of a car, he will pass his motoring test with flying colours.

Anatoli's great longing, however, is for life with horses. His first job as a young man was that of apprentice to a sausage maker. The only meat available for delica- tessen in Russia was horseflesh. Anatoli tended the horses, on their arrival, cherished them, rode them. Then he had to butcher them. Tragiezne, he said, with tears start- ing in his eyes while relating this macabre story, on almost the only occasion that he drank anything alcoholic while in my house (and then not very much). And tragic it is, when one comes to think of it.

His first steps in the west have been to vindicate his name, to demonstrate that the writings published in Russia as by A. Kuz- netsov were falsified by the Soviet censor- ship and rendered unclean. Up to now, much of the Russian writing critical of the

So, regime has been done by people in concentration camps, hospitals or lunatic asylums, who have nothing to lose. Accord- ing to Kuznetsov it is high time that the laureates of Soviet writing spoke up. But ere is obviously an acute ., pe

there

rsonal moral dilemma involved in this: it is not an omelette which can be cooked uithout trampling on a grievous quantity of human egg shell.

Anatoli's first article after coming to England was, as he explained it to me, an attempt to clear his conscience over hmin involved Yevtushenko, Aktionno and others of his best friends in the bizarre charad which he had to play for the KGB in order to establish the requisite degree of personal treachery needed to provide him with the 'atni cochon' status indispensable in the procurement of a passport. To incriminate one's friends in improbable conspiracies is a terrible expedient. Once again Anatoli may have to butcher the horses that he loved. At least, however, this has been a decisive move, following decades of inde- cision and subservience. Let those who criticise Kuznetsov reflect on how heasv decision is involved, and on the fact that it is he, not they, who bears the weight ofitd I o not feel that he has the makings of a Kremlinologist. We shall never learn from him what Brezhnev is like in his cups or if Kosygin needs dyspepsia pills. His view of the Communist party and its leaders is one of black disgust. He sees them simply as the polluted rinsings of the human barrel. His purpose in moving from Moscow to Tula was to get away from people like that. His only political pronouncement of any moment concerned Lenin, whom he regard as an arch-devil: the subtle, cunning beget- ter of the hideously cruel system since pre- vailing. Stalin he sees as a kind of success- ful Bashi-bazouk, a Caucasian thug who hi the big time.

Rather hesitantly, foreseeing the kind of answer that a really stupid question is likely to evoke, I asked him whether he thought that Soviet communism ssas cap- able of self-betterment, improvement, or reform. The look of genuine pity that he gave me, of commiseration with the sills ignorance which could allow one to po such a question, was a sufficient answer. blushed and changed the subject in som haste.

Although he is plainly a writer, and n a politician, it may be that he will be ab to wield considerable influence in the futur. through the Russian-language programme of western radio services. Remember th he is one of the Soviet laureates, and th his works have circulated in vast quantitie Once the discrepancy between what h actually wrote and what he was purport to have written becomes apparent, a lot o people are going to sit up and think. should imagine that his comments 0 specific happenings may have quite a effect. His open letter to the Czechoslovaks for example, is a case in point, obvious!, designed for a Soviet audience. What of his prospects here? To be re born at the age of forty must be very e:( citing, but this is his expressed desire. Wi he be able to adjust himself to our men climate and idiom? One cannot say with out first reading him. His general approaei seems to me very reminiscent of the ,pac ousness, the first serenity, which I base me with in other East Ukrainian writers. Par ticularly lwan Bakhrianyj. In any event. t modest quantity of money which Anato has already earned in this countr can provide for a pause for readjustmen reflection and a breathing space. To breat freely is what he has always wanted. r 3