From the memoirs of Karetnikova: Stalin trusted Mikoyan, but when he got angry, he planted him in white trousers on tomatoes. They both despised Russians G

Inga Karetnikova. Portraits of different sizes

Inga Karetnikova was born in Moscow in 1931. She graduated from the art history department of Moscow University. She worked as a curator in the Engraving Cabinet of the Pushkin Museum. After graduating from the Higher Script Courses, she wrote scripts for a documentary and popular science film studio. In 1972 she left the Soviet Union. She lived in Italy for a year, where she published a book about Eisenstein in Mexico. Since 1973 she lived in the USA, taught screenwriting at American universities, was invited by film companies in Germany, Austria and Switzerland as a consultant. She was awarded the Guggenheim Prize for her work on painting and film, as well as the Carnegie Mellon and Radcliffe College awards. She has published several books on cinema in the United States, including studies on Fellini's Casanova, Buñuel's Veridian, and Seven Film Masterpieces of the 1940s. A book about screenwriting, How Screenplays Are Made, became widely known in America and Europe. In 2014, her novel Pauline was published in English in Holland. In March 2015, Inga Karetnikova passed away.

Introduction

The rupture of a person accustomed not only to speaking, but to writing in his native language, a sharp immersion in a foreign language most often ends with the fact that this person either completely stops writing, or continues his work in the language in which he wrote before, trying not to notice the ambiguity of the created language. provisions. When Inga Karetnikova left Russia, she, like many other people in the humanitarian professions, had to face this catastrophic question: is it possible to continue what she was doing there? Forty-two years of living in America answered this question with the utmost expressiveness: she continued to work in the same professional rhythm, with the same tension and the same brilliance, only the language of her work changed: Karetnikova’s books were not published in translation from Russian, as happens almost always - she wrote them in English. I remember how she once said to me: “You know, baby, I think I did it. Not only do I understand what American children say, but they understand me too.”

"Portraits" is a striking experience of returning not only to the life lived - it's better to say "fate" - but also to the bosom of the native language, forced out due to the circumstances caused by this fate. Working on "Portraits", she strung human characters on the core of her own biography, with each of them returning back to the cradle of her "mother tongue", which has not cooled down for so many decades, as they say in English, literally - "mother tongue" .

Irina Muravieva

COUNT ALFRED WITTE

Former Count Alfred Karlovich Witte lived in Ufa. All his relatives were shot by the Bolsheviks in the first days of the October Revolution.

It was an aristocratic, close royal family, my mother told me. - One of them, Sergei Witte, was the prime minister. Immediately after the coup, Alfred Karlovich and his wife - it was some kind of insight, there is no other way to explain it - having abandoned everything, they boarded a train going from St. Petersburg to the depths of Russia, to the Urals, and chose Ufa. This distant provincial town did not attract attention. People fled from the revolution abroad, to the Caucasus, to the Crimea. Nobody was interested in Ufa, and this choice saved the Witte spouses ...

On the way, a few days later, his wife fell ill with typhus. They were dropped off the train a little before reaching Ufa, in a place where there was a hospital. Surprisingly, they let her out there and even gave them some kind of document. In Ufa, Alfred Karlovich got a job cleaning the streets, then paving roads, then doing something else. Over time, he built housing from an old abandoned barn - without electricity, but with insulated walls, a window and even a small stove. His wife, Countess Witte, was hired as a cleaner in the library, so they had something to read. Another luck - no one was interested in them. Currant and raspberry bushes, lilac trees grew around the barn. There was also a small garden.

When the door of our room broke, or rather almost fell off, our landlady Ivanovna (we were evacuated from Moscow, who rented a room in her apartment) said that she would call Karlych and he would fix it.

One of these - the former, - she chuckled.

The next day, a noble-looking old man came to us with a gray, neatly trimmed beard, a thin face consisting almost only of a profile. He was wearing a shabby red coat made of horseskin, old felt boots with galoshes, and in his hands was a bag with tools. It was Count Witte. Something in him remained of his former bearing - in the figure, in the expression of his face - although he lived for more than twenty years in a strange environment, a foreign language, among the Tatars and Bashkirs, whom he did not understand well, but they did not understand him. He avoided the Russians.

The stories of Inga Karetnikova were given to our publication by her husband, the American artist Leon Steinmets, and the Ukrainian poet and publicist, former editor-in-chief of Ogonyok Vitaliy Korotich.

The first publication contains Korotich's story about Karetnikova and Steinmetz and Karetnikova's memoirs about a close associate of Joseph Stalin, former First Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR, former Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union Anastas Mikoyan.

FOREWORD BY VITALY KOROTICH

It is estimated that more than 200 million people live on Earth today outside their countries of birth - these are first-generation emigrants, newcomers. By the middle of the 21st century, there will be over a quarter of a billion of them. People move around the world, customs, psychologies mix up - some adapt to this faster, others may never get used to it, remain a human mixture where you have to look at the constantly changing environment and learn to survive in it.

Harvard University professor Samuel Huntington wrote the famous essay The Clash of Civilizations in 1996, prophesying that no one will get used to anyone and the world that survived the Cold War will still die, but not in the class battles promised by Marxists , but in the battles of irreconcilable people united in civilizations that will never understand each other.

Just at that time I was professor at Boston University, and Harvard University was across the Charles River, which separates Boston - just cross the bridge. One of my colleagues, Inga Karetnikova, lived near Harvard, where she also taught from time to time. There were no more Russian-speaking professors in our field of vision, although the universities in Boston are very crowded - we just did not look for excessive communication. Karetnikova emigrated to America back in the early 70s of the last century, her first marriage was to the famous composer Nikolai Karetnikov, from whom she already had an adult son, Mitya. In Boston, Inga became the wife of the artist Leon Steinmetz, a very respected among American and European painters and graphic artists, who constantly exhibited in the most prestigious halls - his works were acquired in the collection of not only the famous Boston Museum, but also the New York Metropolitan Museum, The British Museum and Kensington Palace in London, the Dresden Gallery, the Vienna Albertina, the Moscow Pushkin Museum and many very prestigious private collections.

What I liked is that Leon Steinmetz was really Leon and Steinmetz, this is not a falsification of passport data popular with emigrants under the American pronunciation, but his real name and surname received from his parents, who ended up in Altai by the will of Soviet fate. However, the German echoes of the surname did not prevent Leon from becoming one of the best graduates of the Moscow School of the Academy of Arts and exhibiting in our former country. In the early 70s, he emigrated from her.

Why did I start by remembering Huntington's article? Because Inga Karetnikova and Leon Steinmets fit into the world around them on an equal footing. They were not suffering immigrants from an incompatible civilization, like typical representatives of Russian-speaking immigration, for a long time, especially at first, telling all sorts of horrors about their former life and wishing sympathetic blessings for these stories. Inga and Leon entered the new world for themselves as equals, like professionals. Karetnikova, a graduate of Moscow State University, was the most famous art critic in Moscow, an employee of the Pushkin Museum and immediately began performing abroad as a professional. Arriving in Rome in 1972, she published a book there about the Mexican years of the work of the film director Eisenstein a year later. In Italy, about a Russian director in Mexico. A clash of civilizations? Nothing like that - mutual penetration. The book was met with interest, and thanks to it, many universities offered contracts to Inga. She taught, among other things, film studies, screenwriting, worked just on the line of contact between cultures and civilizations. Karetnikova has a book published and seen in America, where she analyzes very famous films: Fellini's "The Road", Kurosawa's "Rashomon" and Buñuel's "Viridiana" as almost simultaneous attempts to look at similar phenomena from different angles. Civilizations represented by their brightest filmmakers did not collide, but tried to become mutually more understandable. This is rather not art criticism, but the art of bringing together multilingual storytellers.

Leon Steinmetz told everyone about his love for his favorite writer, Gogol. He considers the Russian classic a forerunner of modern thinking and a surrealist more convincing than Dali, and an existentialist brighter than Sartre. At some point, Steinmetz created a series of works on Gogol's themes, but he did not illustrate the classic - he translated it into the language of his imagination, not depicting Nozdryov, Poprishchin or Chichikov, but creating Gogol's unique world visually.

One can enumerate the awards received by Inga Karetnikova, among them there are such honorary ones as Guggenheim and Carnegie Mellon, one can talk about Steinmetz's exhibitions, one of which a few years ago was held with great success at the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. But I'm talking about the main thing, about how great masters translate their thoughts about art, which unites us, into the language of art criticism, graphics, and painting.

Inga and Leon did not know very much about Ukraine, and it was all the more pleasant from the way they became interested in the brilliant translation of "Eugene Onegin", which was once made by Maxim Rylsky. I read them a congenial text and was glad to give it to them at their request.

Karetnikova in the last few years of her life wrote memoirs - very capacious, organized, rather, according to the laws of Western journalism, where the presentation of facts must be separated from the commentary. She simply remembers, leafs through her life, prolonging the lives of others. Inga died in March this year in Boston, she was 83 years old. Until her last days, she wrote about Fellini, whom she knew, but did not have time to finish. Literally at the end of her days, I received a very interesting novel by Karetnikova, Polin, published in English in Holland, about the era of the Russian Empress Elizabeth.

Steinmetz showed his new works. His world is both surprisingly diverse and universal. There are the series "Demons of the Flood", and "The Temptations of St. Anthony"; "Reflections on Vanity" and "Memento Mori"; "Omazh Classical Greece" and "Gospel Series"; unique "Drawings of Werther" (that is, what and how Goethe's Werther would draw if he lived now), and many others. He still lives in Cambridge, a Boston area, or suburb, where it is not customary to hang curtains in old houses. We sometimes walked along these streets, looking at the life of people, which is unusually undisguised, we went to a cafe where we could sit all evening, listening to the pianist translate famous musical classics into the language of jazz.

A remarkable art critic, an outstanding artist who so naturally got used to the region that is called "new England" in America, next to one of the most famous in the world - Harvard - universities, where a collection of butterflies caught by Vladimir Nabokov, another of the people who came from afar, is exhibited , which has become a classic of several cultures and is never lost in the world's diversity.

Vitaly Korotich

STORY "STALIN'S ALLOY, ANASTAS MIKOYAN" FROM THE BOOK INGA KARETNIKOVA "PORTRAITS OF DIFFERENT SIZES"

"Portraits of different sizes" are stories about people I have met. These people are of very different calibers, from Fellini and Rostropovich to our eccentric housekeeper Vera; from a close associate of Stalin, Mikoyan, to the typist Nadezhda Nikolaevna, who typed for me for many years. These are Russians, Americans, British, Italians, French, Spaniards, Mexicans. Some I knew well. Some just flashed through my life. Many of them are no more, but they all live in my memory.

From the preface to the book "Portraits of different sizes"

The Mexican art exhibit was huge. Half of the halls of the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts were vacated for the sculpture of ancient Indians - Olmecs, Zapotecs, Totanacs, Aztecs, Mayans. The chief curator of the museum was in Italy at that time, his deputy was seriously ill. The only researcher who wrote at least something - two small articles - about the art of Mexico, was me, and the then director of the museum, Zamoshkin, decided to appoint me as the main curator of this exhibition. Responsibility is incredible!

Some time after its opening, I was urgently summoned to the director. The door of his office was opened by a person I did not know, there was another stranger in the office and no one else.

I realized instantly that it was the KGB. Questions began - name, year of birth, position in the museum, marital status, address, and something else and more.

Not a polite word, not a smile. Arrested? They asked me to open my small bag that was with me. One of them dumped everything out of it on the table, examined the notebook, handkerchief, pen, keys, then put everything back. Meanwhile, another ran his hands over my sweatshirt and skirt. Then he asked me to sit down.

Then they explained to me that after some time I would have to show the exhibition to someone - no more than half an hour, walk from his right side, hold nothing in my hands, leave my bag here. Before his arrival, I have to sit in the office without going anywhere, even to the toilet - not now, not later.

They left, turning off the phone and locking me up. My humiliation, resentment, discontent knew no bounds. An hour and a half later, the door was opened by some kind of more important KGB officer than those two, and ordered to urgently go to the entrance to the museum, meet Khrushchev.

But it was not Khrushchev who arrived, but his deputy, Anastas Mikoyan.

Since childhood, I knew his portraits: huge, colored, painted on canvas, they hung on houses or large stands - portraits of leaders and Mikoyan among them. And now he was nearby, alive, and I, as ordered, walked from his right side.

"And this is the jaguar, God of the Night," I said animatedly. - Why nights? He looked at me over his glasses. "The Aztecs believed that the jaguar had spots on its skin, like stars in the sky," I explained. "You have to think of something like that!" Mikoyan chuckled.

When I pointed to the God of Rain, a huge, lying Quetzalcoatl, Mikoyan said with an accent (he generally spoke with a strong Caucasian accent): "What a loafer, please tell me - lies to himself while the poor work!"

Stalin trusted Mikoyan more than others, you can even say he was friends with him, although when he got angry, as Stalin's daughter writes, he planted him in white trousers on ripe tomatoes - the dictator's favorite joke. With Mikoyan, and not with the damned Russians, Stalin liked to eat chanakhi - lamb baked in Caucasian style in vegetables. They both despised Russians.

Stalin entrusted Mikoyan with responsible diplomatic negotiations, but, as far as is known, Mikoyan was not involved in show trials and internal terror. It is possible, however, that he was obliged to sign lists of so-called unnecessary specialists.

After Stalin's death, Mikoyan became Khrushchev's right hand. When Khrushchev was ousted by an internal party coup, Mikoyan's career ended. Everything was taken away from him, including his beloved huge dacha near Moscow - his estate, like those that Russian nobles had before the revolution.

But then at the Mexican Exhibition he was still one of the most important leaders. I told him about the ritual figures of warriors, about the hero Guatemoc, about the Mayans, about the Aztec calendar. At the basalt figure of the goddess of Spring, Mikoyan stopped and turned to the photographer: "And now, near the Mexican goddess, take me off with this goddess of ours." He pointed his finger at me and laughed at his own joke.

"GORDON" will publish memoirs from the series "Portraits of different sizes" on Saturdays and Sundays. The next story - about the Italian film director Federico Fellini - is available on our website tomorrow, October 10th.

About the author | Inga Karetnikova was born in Moscow in 1931. She graduated from the art history department of Moscow University. She worked as a curator in the Engraving Cabinet of the Pushkin Museum. After graduating from the Higher Script Courses, she wrote scripts for a documentary and popular science film studio.

In 1972 she left the Soviet Union. She lived in Italy for a year, where she published a book about Eisenstein in Mexico. Since 1973 she lived in the USA, taught screenwriting at American universities, was invited by film companies in Germany, Austria and Switzerland as a consultant. She was awarded the Guggenheim Prize for her work on painting and film, as well as the Carnegie Mellon and Radcliffe College awards. She has published several books on cinema in the United States, including studies on Fellini's Casanova, Buñuel's Veridian, and Seven Film Masterpieces of the 1940s. A book about screenwriting, How Screenplays Are Made, became widely known in America and Europe. In 2014, her novel Pauline was published in English in Holland. In March 2015, Inga Karetnikova passed away.

The rupture of a person accustomed not only to speaking, but to writing in his native language, a sharp immersion in a foreign language most often ends with the fact that this person either completely stops writing, or continues his work in the language in which he wrote before, trying not to notice the ambiguity of the created language. provisions. When Inga Karetnikova left Russia, she, like many other people in the humanitarian professions, had to face this catastrophic question: is it possible to continue what she was doing there? Forty-two years of living in America answered this question with the utmost expressiveness: she continued to work in the same professional rhythm, with the same tension and the same brilliance, only the language of her work changed: Karetnikova’s books were not published in translation from Russian, as happens almost always, she wrote them in English. I remember how she once said to me: “You know, baby, I think I did it. Not only do I understand what American children say, but they understand me too.”

"Portraits" is an amazing experience of returning not only to the life lived - it is better to say "fate" - but also to the bosom of the native language, forced out due to the circumstances determined by this fate. Working on "Portraits", she strung human characters on the core of her own biography, with each of them returning back to the cradle of her "mother tongue", which has not cooled down for so many decades, as they say in English, literally translated - "mother tongue" .

Irina Muravieva

COUNT ALFRED WITTE

Former Count Alfred Karlovich Witte lived in Ufa. All his relatives were shot by the Bolsheviks in the first days of the October Revolution.

“It was an aristocratic, close royal family,” my mother told me. One of them, Sergei Witte, was the prime minister. Immediately after the coup, Alfred Karlovich and his wife - it was some kind of insight, there is no other way to explain it - leaving everything, boarded a train from St. Petersburg to the depths of Russia, to the Urals, and chose Ufa. This distant provincial town did not attract attention. People fled from the revolution abroad, to the Caucasus, to the Crimea. Nobody was interested in Ufa, and this choice saved the Witte spouses ...

On the way, a few days later, his wife fell ill with typhus. They were dropped off the train a little before reaching Ufa, in a place where there was a hospital. Surprisingly, they let her out there and even gave them some kind of document. In Ufa, Alfred Karlovich got a job cleaning the streets, then paving roads, then doing something else. Over time, he built housing from an old abandoned barn - without electricity, but with insulated walls, a window and even a small stove. His wife, Countess Witte, was hired as a cleaner in the library, so they had something to read. Another good thing is that no one was interested in them. Currant and raspberry bushes, lilac trees grew around the barn. There was also a small garden.

“One of those former ones,” she chuckled.

He fiddled with the door for a long time. He was silent, not a word with me, he was busy with his own business. And I did my homework, but I looked at him all the time. The former, I thought, means an aristocrat, and they had palaces, servants whom they exploited, as we were taught about it at school. There was music. Balls. And now…” I looked at him. He held a large nail with his lips - his hands were busy with the door, and she kept jumping off the hinges. I softly stroked his horse coat, which lay next to me.

Mom came home from work, and I went for a walk. When she returned, they were drinking tea, sitting on stools at a table of boxes, and talking in low French. He said something. French words! It was so beautiful, so different than everything around!

From time to time Alfred Karlovich came to us - either to fix something, then to fill holes from rats - and each time he brought a book to his mother to read and some vegetable or fruit from what he and his wife grew. “You will oblige me very much if you take this pumpkin (or zucchini, or cabbage),” he said. Mom, of course, took and thanked.

And then they drank tea and, as always, chatted comfortably. His mother, who worked in the hospital, sent some medicines to his wife from time to time.

Then Alfred Karlovich did not come for a long time, and when Ivanovna went to call him to repair the floor in the corridor, she was told that the former had died, and his wife had been taken to a homeless shelter.

ACTRESS MARIA STRELKOVA

Maria Pavlovna Strelkova was not like everyone else. Not only on stage - either Griboedov's Sophia, then Lermontov's Nina, but in life. Tall, beautiful, she looked like an ancient statue - proportions, the correctness of facial features, the majesty of the whole figure. Kuril. She always smelled so pleasantly of tobacco and perfume. She spoke little, but every word sounded.

My mother was friends with Strelkova in her youth, but then she left Moscow for Kiev, became a famous actress there, married an even more famous actor Mikhail Romanov, and they never met my mother at all. But there, in Ufa, seeing her, Strelkova rushed to her, as to her own. And then she affectionately attached herself to me. She didn't have her own children. She and Romanov asked my mother to give me to them at least for a while - after all, their living conditions were incomparably better. Mom turned this request into a joke.

So, on the stage was “Woe from Wit”. Sophia, always played by Strelkova, was so beautiful; Chatsky, played by Romanov, was the best. In my ten years, I could not understand why Sophia chooses such a stupid Molchalin, and not Chatsky. Strelkova later explained to me that Molchalin seemed more devoted to Sofya. He would never leave, leaving her, as Chatsky did.

“But she was mistaken,” Strelkova said, and took a drag on her cigarette. “How wrong we all are,” she added. No one has ever spoken to me like an adult.

Largely thanks to Strelkova, Russian literature began for me. She loved to read aloud and saw me freeze. I can still hear her mesmerizing voice:

- “Aunt Mikhailovna! the girl shouted, barely keeping up with her. - Lost the scarf!

And the wind, and the tears of Katyusha Maslova, and the rapidly rushing train with him, Nekhlyudov, who deceived her, appear before me now, as they arose then.

And how Turgenev, how Chekhov Strelkova discovered for me! Once, when I was sick and in bed, she and Romanov acted out an excerpt from Lermontov's Masquerade for me. The theater approached me, filled our room. And our wretched room has been transformed. There was a ball, music, masks, and this bracelet dropped by someone was lying around, which became evidence of Nina's infidelity. Believing in slander, Arbenin, Nina's husband, poisons her. She dies, and he finds out that she is not guilty of anything ... From the impressions, I could not move. And they both somehow immediately woke up from their masquerade dream. Romanov took his glasses out of his pocket, wiped them with a handkerchief, put them on and went to the window.

"It's snowing again," he said gloomily, "and I'm not wearing boots."

Strelkova got up and took a cigarette. She lit up.

“I love snow so much,” she said, going to the window, “what could be more beautiful ...

Then she took a flask from her bag and took a long sip. Even then she became an alcoholic, from which she later tragically died - drunk fell somewhere in a Kiev park, her body could not be found for a long time.

After Ufa, I did not see her for almost ten years. But the Kiev theater brought new productions to Moscow. I received an invitation from Romanov to the Three Sisters. On the side was Strelkova's note that she remembers me, loves me and wants to see me. Of course, on stage she was Masha (“We must live! We must start our life again!”) - the most beautiful and most unhappy of the sisters. “What a pity that Griboyedov's Sophia is no longer there,” I thought.

I met Strelkova the next day at the Metropol Hotel, in her luxurious suite. It was daytime, and the winter light from the huge windows hung with skillful muslin flooded everything around. She was sitting in a chair in her pajamas, squinting in the sun, much changed, not at all the same.

"My life is filled with sadness," she said with a drunken smile, and was silent for a long time afterwards.

The conversation didn't work. She only repeated that vodka and apples were on the table, and that I must definitely drink. And pour her some more. Soon she fell asleep in mid-sentence, sitting in an armchair.

NKVD COLONEL EMMA SUDOPLATOVA

All the children of my generation wore Spanish hats in the summer - rectangular hats, they were put on with a narrow edge forward. We all said: "No passaran!" (“They won’t pass!”) - about the Francoists and repeated: “It is better to die standing than to live on your knees” - the slogan of Dolores Ibarruri, the main Spanish communist, which the pranksters later remade into something vulgar.

My Spaniard was especially beautiful, bright red with a white tassel. It was given to me by my mother's old friend Emma Karlovna. She brought it from Spain, where she had been in the Republican army for a year, or maybe longer. She was a translator from several languages.

Emma Karlovna invited us to her dacha somewhere near Moscow, me and my mother. Her car followed us. I was seven years old. After breakfast, they talked with my mother, and I played with the cat, walked in the garden, drew something with large beautiful pencils, which were then given to me as a gift. Her children lived and studied in the Crimea. I didn't know them.

There were many rooms in the house, but they were somehow half empty. A large portrait of Lenin hung in the dining room. I never saw her husband, an important military man. She had known her mother for a long time, they probably studied together, she called her affectionately Polinochka. I didn't have any interest in her.

A few years later, when the war began, Emma Karlovna, no longer young, forty years old, arrived in Ufa. She had a baby, Tolik. She let me hold him and I sang something to him. She was in Ufa for a short time.

Two years later, the war had just ended, my mother and I were again at that dacha near Moscow, and a car also came for us. At breakfast, besides us, sat an elderly, unsmiling woman, a Spaniard. She was silent and, after drinking coffee, went to her room.

- She's staying with me. Only recently I found out that her son died near Stalingrad, - said Emma Karlovna.

I was wondering who this woman was. But I knew that one should never ask about adults and their affairs and should not be interested in this.

Many years passed when I learned that this woman was Dolores Ibarruri, Emma Karlovna herself was a colonel in counterintelligence, and her husband was none other than the all-powerful General Sudoplatov, Beria's chief deputy for foreign affairs. She and her husband were honest, delusional communist fanatics.

I remember the face of Emma Karlovna - dry, high-browed, without makeup, slightly protruding gray eyes, blond hair pulled into a bun. Always with a cigarette. Even to me, a child, the tension coming from her was transmitted. Why did she invite us with her mother?

Probably, my mother was part of her youth - the brightest time, without espionage, betrayal and murder. After the death of Stalin, Beria, as you know, was shot, all of his close ones too. Sudoplatov was arrested, but not shot - he had nothing to do with terror within the country. All the assassinations he planned, including the assassination of Trotsky, were carried out abroad.

“My father was not an executioner, and he was not a murderer - he was a saboteur,” his son argued, the same Tolik whom I once held in my arms in Ufa. Now Tolik is a well-known demographer.

After the execution of Beria, Emma Karlovna was arrested, but released a few months later. Now she came to my mother for coffee, but I never ran into her. Of course, her dacha and house in Moscow were taken away from her. She lived in one tiny room, without the right to work. I earned money by teaching. But the children could continue to learn. Sudoplatov spent fifteen years in a prison in Vladimir, came out an invalid with a curved spine, but, having recovered a little, began to work. Now he wrote about Soviet diplomacy, the espionage system, leaders; about Stalin, whom he met regularly; about Beria, whom he considered not such a villain as he is usually represented; about Khrushchev, whom he despised.

Sudoplatov was very fond of Emma Karlovna, for more than half a century they were devoted to each other. Recently I saw in a documentary how he - a small, hunched old man (well over ninety), formerly a tall, handsome general - puts a red rose on her grave in Moscow's Donskoy cemetery.

GRANDSON OF THE ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE VITALIK KAMENEV

Vitalik Kravchenko studied at a male school parallel to my female one. The buildings were almost nearby, within a five-minute walk, and all holidays and evenings passed together. There was even one common class for two schools - ballroom dancing. The teacher, an aged dancer from the Bolshoi Theater, spoke in a mannered manner:

Today I will give you a minuet.

And we learned and danced the minuet, and our singing teacher accompanied. And the next week he "gave" us a polonaise.

My partner was a tall, awkward tenth grader, and Tanya, my friend, always danced with Vitalik. How gracefully he danced! She loved him more than anyone in the world. After dancing, Vitalik and I went to Tanya. They smoked, fearing nothing, in her room, although behind the wall were her mother, stepfather and some guests. But all of them were not up to us. They, inveterate gamblers, played poker.

"Royal Flush," someone shouted outside the door.

— Ante! Beth! - they answered him.

We repeated poker words and smoked our heads off.

Vitalik was not interested in anything, but he looked attractive, even elegant. He studied poorly, but he did not miss school. He was unobtrusively different. He listened to music sadly and could sit and be silent all evening. He had no desire to draw attention to himself, to please, to learn or hear something. Even the cinema, which so captivated all of us, did not interest him. There was a deep weariness in him.

His mother, actress Galina Kravchenko, was a former silent film star; my stepfather was a well-known Georgian theater director, and my father - Tanya told me this under an oath that I would remain silent - was a pilot, Lyutik Kamenev, the son of the revolutionary leader and ally of Lenin, Lev Kamenev. Both of them - father and son - were shot as enemies of the people in the mid-thirties, during the period of Stalin's show trials.

Vitalik himself was unexpectedly arrested at the very end of the forties, as soon as he was eighteen years old. Tanya ran to me early in the morning and, in tears, gasping for breath, said that Vitalik had been taken away at night.

He was sentenced to twenty-five years and sent to one of the Gulag concentration camps in Kazakhstan. Stalin's revenge on his former political ally, Lev Kamenev, extended even to his grandson.

Some time after Stalin's death, Vitalik was rehabilitated. He returned to Moscow unrecognizable, disfigured, with an incurable disease at that time - brucellosis. Soon he died.

It was all more than half a century ago, and my memory of it has long been erased. And then recently he surfaced in my memory, and I learned a lot that I could not know then. I just came across an article about his father, pilot Lyutik Kamenev. When he was a boy, friends of his parents (his mother was Trotsky's sister) took him on a river trip along the Oka and Volga on the royal yacht Mezhen. On this yacht, someone found a sailor's suit not long before this, the executed heir to the throne, the twelve-year-old Tsarevich Alexei. The photograph of the heir in this suit was well known in Russia. When this children's sailor jacket and hat were put on Dandelion, everyone admired - the boy looked like a double of the heir to the throne.

Buttercup was also shot, but only twenty years later. In her memoirs, already very old, having survived everyone, Galina Kravchenko writes how Buttercup loved Vitalik. How he showed him his plane and flew with it. How he always waited for his father and stroked his father's clothes with his hand when he was not at home. And then, when Kamenev himself was shot, and Lyutik was imprisoned in the Butyrka prison before the execution, she took Vitalik with her to take packages to Lyutik and always hoped that they would be allowed to see each other. And six-year-old Vitalik, turning to the wire fence and swallowing tears, repeated:

The pit was between the prison wall and the fence.

CELLIST MSTISLAV ROSTROPOVICH

"I love you, even though I'm furious, Though it's labor and shame in vain, And I confess this unfortunate stupidity At your feet ..." How he sang! Voiceless, ugly, frail, almost bald at twenty-three, but what he created with himself was magnificent. “A bewitching miracle,” said my friend Luda about him. But when his cello, or piano playing, or even vocal indulgence ceased, the atmosphere of a miracle immediately disappeared, and there remained a mocking, sharp, smart man, a gourmet and a womanizer.

He loved things and gizmos. Later, when he became immensely rich, he collected various antiques: furniture of the 18th century, especially Russian Empire, porcelain, chandeliers, mirrors, fabrics. He collected everything, even palaces - in St. Petersburg, Moscow, Lithuania, France.

“You sit, leaning casually, Lowering your eyes and curls, I am tenderly, silently, gently Admiring…” He suddenly stopped.

“I sing this to you,” he said.

- Glory! exclaimed Kolya Karetnikov, “you forgot: I am marrying her, and you have already been invited to the wedding.”

The talented young composer was younger than Slava, no match for him, but they were friends, and Slava came here almost regularly. I joked that maybe he just likes the dinners of Kolya's mother, the singer Maria Petrovna Sukhova. She fed Slava when he was a teenager, in the evacuation, admired his game - they were neighbors. Slavin's father, a cellist, was ill and soon died, and his mother, a pianist, with two children and almost no money, had no time for cooking.

Slava liked to visit the Karetnikovs, leave his communal apartment, play the piano that Rachmaninoff once played, see beautiful portraits of Chaliapin, old opera costumes, landscapes of Koktebel, made by the then fashionable artist Byalynitsky-Birulya, framed from Koktebel pebbles.

He liked to rummage through the unique collection of opera scores and old publications of romances, inherited, like absolutely everything here, including the apartment itself, from his grandmother, the adoptive mother of Kolya's father, the famous singer of the Imperial, and then the Bolshoi Theater Deisha-Sionitskaya.

Rostropovich behaved as if he really cared for me. But I'm sure any other eighteen year old would have had the same reaction. And besides, he liked to tease Kolya.

In general, teasing and playing pranks was one of his favorite pastimes. Who would have believed, hearing his cello with Bach's "Sarabande", that he could just call some musician and invent that the concert of that one was cancelled. Or say that the baby elephant born in the zoo was named after the person he is calling now, and you need to urgently send a letter of consent, certified by a notary. He could invite a young composer who had just graduated from the conservatory allegedly to dinner with Shostakovich or ask him to get a Tambov ham for the dean of the conservatory at all costs.

What twisted fantasy, what ingenuity! What a buffoonish mischief! The need, as in modern art, for shock and sudden effects, the desire to break tradition, even to be indecent; be not humane, but active and not fall into sentimentality. This was the essence of Rostropovich's temperament.

He came to my wedding in Bolshoi Sukharevsky with his mother and sister Veronica. He praised Kolya's father, who performed well "I sing to you, O Hymen, you unite the bride with the groom ...". Then he himself sang something, one of the pianists played. My aunt Emma froze with delight. As he left, Rostropovich asked if he could take truffles with him. And my mother happily poured sweets into his pocket and into Veronica's purse.

Then his visits to Kolya declined and soon stopped altogether. He got along with the singer Zara Dolukhanova - a real, serious romance that everyone was talking about. The depth and elegance of Dolukhanova's voice at the same time, the exciting timbre, the wonderful atmosphere of the music created by Rostropovich accompanying her ... I was at their concert of songs by Schubert, and at the other - romances by Rachmaninov and Brahms. Both are in the Small Hall of the Conservatory, both are indescribably magnificent!

With his marriage to Galina Vishnevskaya in the mid-50s, a period of a different scale, other ambitions began in his life, and I understand that when he was speaking in New York in the 70s, he received my note and did not answer it , - he just grew out of the time when a teenager grows out of early childhood. He, even when asked, did not buy in Paris the medicine needed for the terminally ill Father Kolya. But then, after some twenty years, he gave a lot of money for hospitals and clinics.

Now, when he is gone, when the end is marked and you see his life in all its length, you understand that he was one of the happiest people. His great gift, his amazing performance, the works of the greatest contemporary composers dedicated to him, his luck in everything he did - he achieved everything he wanted - from conducting to money, cars, houses, family, children, to opportunity to help, to the point of faith and even to the absence of fear of death - saying that there, on the other side, are his most beloved people - and Shostakovich, and Britten, and Prokofiev ...

ART HISTORIAN BORIS VIPPER

– If architecture creates space, and sculpture creates bodies, then painting connects space with bodies, with their environment, light and air in which they live. But painting has no touch. Its space and volume exist only in illusion.

This was said by Boris Robertovich Vipper, an art historian, I want to say right away - "the most brilliant, the most knowledgeable." He taught his last seminar at Moscow University. And we, a few of his happy students, listened to him, frozen.

The confident evenness of his speech, complete abstraction from today - his lectures were so free, not like the hectic times in which we lived. And even the way he looked was different - always beautifully dressed and combed, fit, slender in his sixty-odd years.

Some of his expressions were pleasantly old-fashioned: for example, he did not say “the artist was paid so much”, but he said “the figure of remuneration was such and such”.

In lectures, he was straightforward and at the same time, like no one else, poetic:

“This picture shows not so much the temperament of the depicted person as the temperament of smoldering colors, this dark carmine and cold white...

My museum colleague Kholodovskaya, the same age as Vipper, told me in a whisper about his family of long-long Russified Germans who had received the nobility. Before the revolution, Boris Robertovich's father was a professor at Moscow University, had the rank of state councilor, was a world-famous scientist, which did not prevent Lenin from saying that we do not need such bourgeois historians as he, let us have one less Wipper.

In the early 1920s, he and his family were allowed to leave Russia. Riga University immediately gave him a chair. It was also there that his son, our Boris Robertovich, began his professorship in art history, with whom I wrote a diploma on Dutch art of the 17th century. I had not yet graduated from Moscow University when he, the scientific director of the Museum of Fine Arts, hired me there. How happy I was!

With my graduation pages, I came to his museum office. I remember every detail there - a large Empire table with a bronze ornament, a French tapestry with a scene of a courtly feast among flowers and trees, ladies descended from Watteau's paintings, and their caring gentlemen.

His face, when he talked about my work, was always serious. Even when he liked some thought or expression:

— You write that Ruisdael's landscape is not what he sees, but what he feels. I agree, but... None of your attractive finds yet make up for the scattered composition. By the way, have you thought about how the fact that Vermeer's wife was a Catholic influenced his art?

Each time, for some time, he devoted attribution, considering it the basis of the professionalism of an art historian. From the drawer of his desk, he took out a reproduction of a picture or drawing and wanted to hear how my guessing was going - first intuition: not to reason, but to feel; and only then - to think about the theme, stroke, space, pauses, associations.

- Artistic flair, - he said, - is an innate quality, like an ear for music - this, unfortunately, cannot be taught, but constant training is still needed.

He was happy - and it was obvious - if I identified the artist or even just came close to the solution. And no doubt he was glad when, after some time, I was praised at the department for my diploma.

He never asked anything about me and never mentioned anything about himself or his family. But one day, when he was sick, it was necessary to urgently sign the catalog, and the museum editor and I went to his house to get a signature. A chic manor apartment somewhere on Kaluzhskaya Street, high ceilings, carved oak doors, a huge vestibule where we were asked to wait. After some time, the housekeeper gave us a catalog signed by him, and we left.

Boris Robertovich died in 1967. He was almost eighty years old. Later, when various documents became available, I read that Boris Robertovich's father returned to Russia from Europe in 1940 at Stalin's personal invitation. This happened because he was the only major historian who wrote positively about Ivan the Terrible as a great tsar. Grozny, with his oprichnina and reprisals against the boyars, was for Stalin a historical explanation and justification for his oprichnina - the KGB - and reprisals. Hence Stalin's invitation to the whole Vipper family to come to Moscow, hence the luxurious apartment on Kaluzhskaya.

And, although something about all this worried me - Ivan the Terrible, and Stalin, and some other talk about the Vipper family - but this did not hurt Boris Robertovich in any way. In my mind, he remained untouched by either the world of his relatives or the terrible Soviet reality. His interest was a completely different world. A world created by the inspiration of the great masters. Therefore, for me, he forever remained Professor Wipper, lovingly bending over an old drawing.

STALIN'S ALLOY ANASTAS MIKOYAN

The exhibition of Mexican art was huge. Half of the halls of the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts were vacated for the sculpture of the ancient Indians - Olmecs, Zapotecs, Totanacs, Aztecs, Mayans. The chief curator of the museum was in Italy at that time, his deputy was seriously ill. The only researcher who wrote at least something - two small articles - about the art of Mexico, was me, and the then director of the museum, Zamoshkin, decided to appoint me as the main curator of this exhibition. Responsibility is incredible!

Some time after the opening of the exhibition, I was urgently summoned to the director. The door of his office was opened by a person I did not know, there was another stranger in the office, and no one else.

I realized instantly that it was the KGB. Questions began: name, year of birth, position in the museum, marital status, address, and something else and more. Not a polite word, not a smile. Arrested? They asked me to open the small bag that was with me. One of them dumped everything out of it on the table, examined the notebook, handkerchief, pen, keys, then put everything back. Meanwhile, another ran his hands over my sweatshirt and skirt. Then he asked me to sit down.

They explained to me that after some time I would have to show the exhibition to someone, no more than half an hour, I had to go to his right, not hold anything in my hands, leave my bag here. Before his arrival, I have to sit in the office, not going anywhere, even to the toilet, not now, not later.

But it was not Khrushchev who arrived, but his deputy Anastas Mikoyan. Since childhood, I knew his portraits: huge, colored, painted on canvas, they hung on houses or large stands - portraits of leaders, and Mikoyan is among them. And now he was nearby, alive, and I, as ordered, walked to his right.

“And this is the jaguar, the god of the night,” I said animatedly.

Why nights? He looked at me over his glasses.

“The Aztecs believed that the jaguar had spots on its skin like stars in the sky,” I explained.

- You have to think of something like that! Mikoyan chuckled.

When I pointed to the god of rain, the huge recumbent Quetzalcoatl, Mikoyan said with an accent (he generally spoke with a strong Caucasian accent):

- What a loafer, please tell me - lies to himself while the poor work!

Stalin trusted Mikoyan more than others, even, one might say, was friends with him, although when he got angry, as Stalin's daughter writes, he planted him in white trousers on ripe tomatoes - the dictator's favorite joke. With Mikoyan, and not with the damned Russians, Stalin liked to eat chanakhi - lamb baked in Caucasian style in vegetables. They both despised Russians.

After Stalin's death, Mikoyan became Khrushchev's right hand. When Khrushchev was ousted by an internal party coup, Mikoyan's career ended. Everything was taken away from him, including his beloved huge dacha near Moscow - an estate of the type that Russian nobles had before the revolution.

But then at the Mexican exhibition he was still one of the most important leaders. I told him about the ritual figures of warriors, about the hero Guatemoc, about the Maya, about the Aztec calendar. At the basalt figure of the goddess of spring, Mikoyan stopped and turned to the photographer:

- And now, near the Mexican goddess, take me off with this goddess of ours.

He pointed his finger at me and laughed at his own joke.

PORTRAITS OF DIFFERENT SIZES

COUNT ALFRED WITTE

Former Count Alfred Karlovich Witte lived in Ufa. All his relatives were shot by the Bolsheviks in the first days of the October Revolution.
“It was an aristocratic, close royal family,” my mother told me. - One of them, Sergei Witte, was the prime minister. Immediately after the coup, Alfred Karlovich and his wife - it was some kind of insight, there is no other way to explain it - having abandoned everything, they boarded a train going from St. Petersburg to the depths of Russia, to the Urals, and chose Ufa. This distant provincial town did not attract attention. People fled from the revolution abroad, to the Caucasus, to the Crimea. Nobody was interested in Ufa, and this choice saved the Witte spouses ...
On the way, a few days later, his wife fell ill with typhus. They were dropped off the train a little before reaching Ufa, in a place where there was a hospital. Surprisingly, they let her out there and even gave them some kind of document. In Ufa, Alfred Karlovich got a job cleaning the streets, then paving roads, then doing something else. Over time, he built housing from an old abandoned barn - without electricity, but with insulated walls, a window and even a small stove. His wife, Countess Witte, was hired as a cleaner in the library, so they had something to read. Another luck - no one was interested in them. Currant and raspberry bushes, lilac trees grew around the barn. There was also a small garden. When the door of our room broke, or rather almost fell off, our landlady Ivanovna (we were evacuated from Moscow, who rented a room in her apartment) said that she would call Karlych and he would fix it.
- One of these - the former - she chuckled.
The next day, a noble-looking old man came to us with a gray, neatly trimmed beard, a thin face consisting almost only of a profile. He was wearing a shabby red coat made of horseskin, old felt boots with galoshes, and in his hands was a bag with tools. It was Count Witte. Something in him remained of his former bearing - in the figure, in the expression of his face - although he lived for more than twenty years in a strange environment, a foreign language, among the Tatars and Bashkirs, whom he did not understand well, but they did not understand him. He avoided the Russians. He fiddled with the door for a long time. He was silent, not a word with me, he was busy with his own business. And I did my homework, but I looked at him all the time. “The former,” I thought, “means an aristocrat, and they had palaces, servants whom they exploited, as we were taught about it at school. There was music. Balls. And now…” I looked at him. He held a large nail with his lips - his hands were busy with the door, and she kept jumping off the hinges. I softly stroked his horse coat, which lay next to me. Mom came home from work, and I went for a walk. When she returned, they were drinking tea, sitting on stools at a table of boxes, and talking in low French. He said something. French words! It was so beautiful, so different than everything around! From time to time Alfred Karlovich came to us - either to fix something, or to fill holes from rats - and each time he brought a book to his mother to read and some vegetable or fruit from what he and his wife grew. “You will oblige me very much if you take this pumpkin (or zucchini, or cabbage),” he said. Mom, of course, took and thanked. And then they drank tea and, as always, chatted comfortably. His mother, who worked in the hospital, sent some medicines to his wife from time to time. Then Alfred Karlovich did not come for a long time, and when Ivanovna went to call him to repair the floor in the corridor, she was told that the former had died, and his wife had been taken to a homeless shelter.