phor not just for the political camps,nbut for the entire Soviet Union, more,nfor the entire Communist system. Then”perpetual lies” about the Communistnideology, the Soviet constitution, thenSoviet peaceful intentions . . .nZhKh-385/3. That’s the officialndesignation of our camp. Whatndo the letters “Zh” and “Kh”nstand for? Why, the Russiannwords for “Railway Property.”nThat’s because, officially, therenare no concentration camps innthe USSR! And the numbern”385″? Well, the authoritiesnmust keep count of thennon-existent camps, mustn’tnthey?nIf I were asked to formulate in onensentence what Ratushinskaya’s book isnabout, I would say it is about the KGBnattempt to destroy the human spirit andnto mutilate the soul.n. . . only by a maximumnexertion of will is it possible tonretain one’s . . . scale ofnvalues. . . . But in doing so, younmust not, under any circumstances,nallow yourself to hate.nNot because your tormentorsnhave not earned it. But if younallow hatred to take root, it willnflourish and spread during yournyears in the camps . . . andnultimately corrode and warpnyour soul. You will no longer benyourself, your identity will bendestroyed, all that will remainnwill be a hysterical maddenednand bedevilled husk of thenhuman being that once was.nAnd this is what will comenbefore God should such ancreature die while still behindnbars. And this is just whatn”they” want.nAnd that’s exactly what “they” can’t donwith people like Ratushinskaya and thenother women, the “political” inmates.nReading about these women, I keptnasking myself of whom do they remindnme so much, and then I realized, yes, ofncourse, the early Christians in the timenof Nero, only instead of holding theirnreligious rites in secret in the catacombs,nthey hold theirs for human dignity andnhuman liberty in the open, in theirn”Small Zone,” this camp within a campnamidst the swamps of Soviet Mordovia.n40/CHRONICLESn”Keep beating my heart! Keep beating,”nRatushinskaya tells herself Yes,nplease, keep beating! one wants to joinnin. In 1986, after spending three yearsnand seven months in the camp,nRatushinskaya was released and allowednto emigrate. She has survived. “I didnnot betray my conscience, and the mannI love was waiting for me when I camenout . . . What else can one ask for?”nBesides his contributions tonChronicles, Leon Steinmetz’s essaysnhave appeared in Commentary andnNational Review. He teaches creativenwriting at Harvard.nAn Audiencenof Onenby Thomas McGoniglenSalazar Blinksnby David SlavittnNew York: Atheneum; 159 pp.,n$16.95nAny literary effort by David Slavitt isna complicated business for a reviewer.nThe complexity arises not immediatelynfrom the work itself, but fromnthe prolific nature of Slavitt. To date, henis the author of 13 works of fiction, 14nbooks of poetry or translation, twonbooks of nonfiction, at least eight pseudonymousnnovels, to say nothing of ansteady stream of reviews and essays.nUnlike Anthony Burgess, with his AnClockwork Orange, or Vladimir Nabokov,nwith his LoZita, Slavitt has yet tonwrite that one single work about whichnall the other books and writing cannorbit. The result is that each new booknhas to be approached on its own, and itnalmost seems that the reviewer needsnto recapitulate Slavitt’s career in ordernto get at this one book. I am sure, onenday, there will be someone who willnmake the connections, tie up the loosenends, and package up Mr. Slavitt. Incannot do that here.nSalazar Blinks concerns itself withnmodern Portugal just after longtimenstrongman Antonio Salazar suffers anparalyzing stroke. Because of thenlength of his rule and the need fornsome sort of continuity, the actualngovernment of the day allowed thenparalyzed Salazar to preside over annnmock government. In the novel Salazarnis watched and protected by hisnhousekeeper, Dona Maria, who interpretsnhis eye blinks when questions arenposed to him by his sham ministers.nThe book is narrated by a poet,nCarios. It seems at one time Carios wasna poet of talent and promise. Over thenyears he was compromised, and he isnnow a figure of fun. He stages mocknradio broadcasts and serves as the announcernfor shows that have an audiencenof one: Salazar.nThe narrator is the major problemnof the novel. Carlos is extremely unsympathetic.nWhen the narrator of thennovel is a poet, the risks of boredomnand pretense are high. Slavitt has concernednhimself with the figure of thenpoet before and has, in a witty andnlikable novel. Anagrams, allowed himselfnfar more scope to explore the rolenof a poet (or, better, the lack of a rolenfor poetry in American society). However,nhis use of the poet in SalazarnBlinks.s less successful. (Or did I missnsomething? Is the whole novel a sendupnof poets who think they do actuallynhave some role, some place, in democraticnor totalitarian societies?)nNovels based on “real” events alsonbring out the factchecker and thenhistorical-comparer in me, and I notenin what is a book narrated by a poetnthere is no mention of the one internationallynknown Portuguese poet of thisncentury, Fernando Pessoa. Further, it isninteresting to compare Slavitt’s versionnof the 1930’s in Portugal:nThere was a literacy rate ofnthirty-five percent — if younbelieve the government figures.nCut that in half for a morenrealistic estimate. No terrificnbase for all those finendemocratic institutions. I meannwhat he [Salazar] was runningnwas essentially a joke country.nwith that of Albert Jay Nock, whonactually was in Portugal in the 1930’s:nI am greatly impressed by thennumber and quality of thenbookshops in Lisbon. They arenan interesting and annencouraging sight. The wholenpopulation of Portugal is lessnthan New York City’s and Inhear that 70 percent of it isn