"My Home" by Olga BerggoltsIntroduction and translation from the Russian by Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky

Olga Berggolts (1910 - 1975) remains one of the most enduring personages of the 900 Day Siege of Leningrad. The siege was one of the most tragic, and at the same time most heroic, episodes of The Great Patriotic War. Leningrad, as St. Petersburg was called during the Soviet era, was surrounded by the German army for almost three years, resulting in a blockade that caused the starvation deaths of over a million civilians. The siege itself, although not a key strategic event on the Eastern front, holds an important place in the Russian national memory of war. At the same time, it is one of the events of the war that is, with several very notable exceptions, commonly overlooked by Western scholars and sources. While textbooks often mention the heroics of the Battle of Stalingrad, Leningrad is rarely mentioned. Berggolts is often remembered for her cultural work during those 900 days. Her radio broadcasts did much to raise the morale of the city’s beleaguered citizens. As exemplified by this poem, the war left an indelible mark on Berggolts and influenced much of her writing.


МОЙ ДОМ

А в доме, где жила я много лет,
откуда я ушла зимой блокадной,
по вечерам опять в окошках свет.
Он розоватый, праздничный, нарядный.

Взглянув на бывших три моих окна,
я вспоминаю: здесь была война.
О, как мы затемнялись! Ни луча...
И все темнело, все темнело в мире...

Потом хозяин в дверь не постучал,
как будто путь забыл к своей квартире.
Где до сих пор беспамятствует он,
какой последней кровлей осенен?

Нет, я не знаю, кто живет теперь
в тех комнатах, где жили мы с тобою,
кто вечером стучится в ту же дверь,
кто синеватых не сменил обоев -
тех самых, выбранных давным-давно...
Я их узнала с улицы в окно.

Но этих окон праздничный уют
такой забытый свет в сознанье будит,
что верится: там добрые живут,
хорошие, приветливые люди.

Там даже дети маленькие есть
и кто-то юный и всегда влюбленный,
и только очень радостную весть
сюда теперь приносят почтальоны.
И только очень верные друзья
сюда на праздник сходятся шумливый.

Я так хочу, чтоб кто-то был счастливым
там, где безмерно бедствовала я.

Владейте всем, что не досталось мне,
и всем, что мною отдано войне...

Но если вдруг такой наступит день -
тишайший снег и сумерек мерцанье,
и станет жечь, нагнав меня везде,
блаженное одно воспоминанье,
и я не справлюсь с ним и, постучав,
приду в мой дом и встану на пороге,
спрошу... Ну, там спрошу: "Который час?"
или: "Воды", как на войне в дороге,-
то вы приход не осуждайте мой,
ответьте мне доверьем и участьем:
ведь я пришла сюда к себе домой
и помню все и верю в наше счастье...

1946

//

My Home

In the home where I lived many years,
From where I left the winter of the blockade,
A light once again appears in the evening windows.
It is pinkish, festive, elegant.

Glancing at the three windows that used to be mine,
I remember: the war happened here.
Oh how we darkened, without a ray of hope...
And everything darkened, everything darkened in this world...

Afterwards the owner did not knock on the door,
As though he had forgotten the way back to his own apartment.
Where is he now, absent-mindedly roaming?
What is the last place that gave him shelter?

No, I do not know who lives there now,
In these rooms where you and I used to live,
Who, in the evenings, knocks on that very door,
Who left the blue wallpaper as it was,
The very same wallpaper that was chosen so long ago...
I recognized it from outside through the window.

The windows’ inviting comfort,
Awaken memories of such bright, forgotten light,
That I believe that kind people live there,
Good, welcoming people.

There are even little children there,
And someone young, who is perpetually in love,
And the postman only brings them happy news,
And only the truest friends come here for noisy holidays.

I want so dearly for someone to be happy,
There, where I suffered immeasurably.

Possess everything that was denied to me,
And all that I gave up for the war...

However, should such a day arrive,
When the tranquil snow and glimmering twilight,
Will light ablaze my blessed memories,
So vividly that I will not resist knocking on the door,
Coming into my home, standing in my threshold,
And asking...well asking, “What time is it?”
Or “Water,” like I did on those roads of war.
If that happens, do not judge me,
Answer me trustingly and compassionately,
After all, I have come here to my home,
And I remember it all and believe in our happiness.

1946

•••

Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky is a freelance translator and writer living in New York. He is the translator and compiler of In the War and Other Stories, an anthology of Vasily Grossman’s short stories, which was published by Sovlit.com. In addition to being a frequent contributor to Sovlit, Andrew has been an assistant editor for Ulbandus, Columbia University’s Slavic Review, and was the 2007 recipient of Columbia’s Pushkin Prize for poetry in translation. Professionally, he has worked on several translations and transliterations, most notably producing transliterations for the Miller Theatre’s Stravinsky Festival. He blogs at http://mikhailych.wordpress.com