method was delay—and entanglingnGreat Britain and the United States inncomplicity with that delay.nIf there was ambiguity about Stalin’snactions, there was none about his attitudes.nHe was contemptuous and suspicious.nHarriman saw Stalin in a furynat a Polish underground pamphlet (fromnthe area of Poland already conquerednby the Red Army) declaring there wasnno difference between Stalin and Hitler.nStalin had broken relations with thengovernment of Poland in exile in Londonnwhen in 1943 it had bravely spokennup about the Soviet murder of 4,400nPolish officers in the Katyn forest. Thatnthere was no difference between Stalinnand Hitler was the truth—but a truthnthat has only lately penetrated the generalnmind. At that time millions werendying with the name Stalin the lastnword on their lips.nLike Churchill, Stalin understood thencrucial importance of Polish couragenbut unlike him, he feared it: he spokendisparagingly of the fighters in Warsawnas opportunists and amateurs. And theynwere in some sense amateurs, becausenthey risked their lives when the oddsnwere against them, and because theynbelieved in the words of the AtlanticnCharter, signed by the London government—andnthe Soviet Union. At YaltanStalin even belittled the prowess of thencommunist guerrillas in Yugoslavia.nHe was envious of those who were courageousnon their own. With his usualnbrutal sententiousness (a deadly parodynof Goethe) he remarked that our timenhad discovered that even average menncould become heroes—if they had angun at their back as well as in front ofnthem. He hated disinterested couragen—it made him feel his own cowardice.nThe best moment in Zawodny’s booknoccurs when the memory of the surrendernto the Germans overpowers him:n”Here and there along the streets,ncivilians fell to their knees as our columnsnpassed by. This was an unforgettable,nalmost shocking scene,nbecause in Poland one kneels in reverencenonly to the Holy Sacrament.”nAndrei Sinyavsky’s and Robert Conquest’snbooks are about the camps innthe Soviet Union, that is, they are aboutnthe domestic counterparts to the SovietnUnion’s attempts at subversion abroad.nFor the Soviet regime only seeks to donto others what it does to itself and itsnsubjects.nThe camps also tell about how thenwar ended in Russia—or rather did notnend—for just as he had feared the couragenof the Poles, Stalin also feared thencourage of his returning soldiers. Uponncessation of hostilities, numbers in thencamps increased until they reached innthe general opinion something likentwelve or fourteen miUion in 1950-52,nnearly twice the total of 1940.nBut Sinyavsky’s book is not reallynabout the camps. It is a book from thencamps, written in the camps. It is madenup of bits of letters to his wife writtennduring Sinyavsky’s time (from 1966 ton1971) in the Potma camps, some threenhundred miles due east of Moscow.nThese letters often requested the commentsnof other prisoners. Printed apartnfrom Sinyavsky’s own words, in italics,nthey sound like a chorus, from whichnSinyavsky always keeps the distance ofna protagonist who knows his own measure.nIt is these, sometimes aphoristic,nbits of conversation of the other prisoners,nthat tell of existence in the camps.nSinyavsky’s own words rarely refer tonthe camps—except for remarks thatnappear as slips: he mentions loggingn(the hardest work after the gold miningnConquest describes), or in a camp hospitalnhe lets you see the dying all aroundnwhen he describes a corpse on a stretchernas the only one who looked at peace.nMostly Sinyavsky describes nature,nlike a man who lives in it and knows itnlives in him—which is the only selfknowledgenof those who live withoutnsociety. He tells of the way light feelsnpouring through you in the spring afterna long winter, of the way the trees rise,nof the strength of birds singing and ofnthe soft yielding of the sky. There isnnnsomething of the wonder of the newbornnin his words.nHe also reads—reads with a seriousnessnthat makes me blush. For instance,nhe glosses a passage in Suetonius thatndescribes Octavian dropping off to sleepnbefore battle. And he reflects—aboutnancient art and renaissance art, aboutnEurope, about Europe and Russia, butnnot, unless memory fails, aboutnAmerica. You would not think he livesnin the twentieth century—but it is preciselynbecause he really has that henwrites as if he has not.nExcept for the voices reminding innthe background with whom Sinyavskynfeels solidarity, you would think younwere reading Goethe’s notebooks ofnhis trip to Italy. Besides nature and thenvoices of his fellow prisoners, Sinyavskynfeels the strength of art. These thoughtsnand observations feel as if they grownfrom living rock: it is hard to give ansense of the strength they yield. Sinyavskynmakes me feel frivolous.nHe writes to his wife. And by the endnof the book, whose last chapter takesnplace outside of the camps, it is hernvoice—rather than her silence whichnoverwhelms. For you never hear a wordnfrom her—directly.nIn some ways this is a book of manners—innthe way the Odyssey is—ofnmanners in the camps. For Sinyavsky isna visitor in the camps—just like thenother voices—and they all have to learnnhow to act there. The manners arenaristocratic, for Sinyavsky in the campsncontinued to live in his way. As in thenOdyssey these are also the manners ofnlife and death. There is somethingnworldly about Sinyavsky, as if the campsnwere our courts and curias and cathedrals,nas if they were the place wherenyou learned in our time how to behavenin the world.nHe seems to be saying this is what wenare all up against. This is how you actnin a world where there are no princes,nwhere individuals will neither rule nornbe ruled. Because of this, because thenbook gives an example of strength butn11nChronicles of Culturen