Dostoevsky behind Barbed Wire

It happened just as in Dostoev-sky’s novels, just as swiftly and unexpectedly, a life-shattering experience. I was secretary of the editorial group preparing the complete works of Dostoevsky for publication. On the morning of February 14, 1967, when our group met as usual at the Institute of Russian Literature in Leningrad, a visiting American scholar invited me to have dinner with him at his hotel to discuss certain aspects of the project. I accepted his invitation and, that evening, in the nearly empty restaurant of the hotel, we became the target of a drunk’s importunings. Tired of his game, we decided to continue our talk in my friend’s room. Later that night I was shadowed all the way home, but knowing that in our land such attention is commonly bestowed on foreign visitors, especially Americans, and on their friends, 1 did not let it bother me. The next day 1 was to give a lecture on Dostoevsky and Marcel Proust at the institute, and so 1 went to bed right away.

I was awakened earlier than usual the following morning by strange sounds in our communal apartment (my wife, who at the time was in a clinic awaiting the birth of our baby, and I occupied a room no larger than 140 square feet; five more families lived in adjoining rooms). There was a faint knock on the door, and then the shaky voice of a neighbor: “A telegram for you …” I unlocked the door without even getting out of bed, and our crowded little room was instantly filled with people. “Hands up!” A pistol was pointed at me; the KGB officer was obviously dead serious. “You’re under arrest, here is the prosecutor’s warrant.”

EV

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Evgenii Vaghin

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It happened just as in Dostoev-sky’s novels, just as swiftly and unexpectedly, a life-shattering experience. I was secretary of the editorial group preparing the complete works of Dostoevsky for publication. On the morning of February 14, 1967, when our group met as usual at the Institute of Russian Literature in Leningrad, a visiting American scholar invited me to have dinner with him at his hotel to discuss certain aspects of the project. I accepted his invitation and, that evening, in the nearly empty restaurant of the hotel, we became the target of a drunk’s importunings. Tired of his game, we decided to continue our talk in my friend’s room. Later that night I was shadowed all the way home, but knowing that in our land such attention is commonly bestowed on foreign visitors, especially Americans, and on their friends, 1 did not let it bother me. The next day 1 was to give a lecture on Dostoevsky and Marcel Proust at the institute, and so 1 went to bed right away.

I was awakened earlier than usual the following morning by strange sounds in our communal apartment (my wife, who at the time was in a clinic awaiting the birth of our baby, and I occupied a room no larger than 140 square feet; five more families lived in adjoining rooms). There was a faint knock on the door, and then the shaky voice of a neighbor: “A telegram for you …” I unlocked the door without even getting out of bed, and our crowded little room was instantly filled with people. “Hands up!” A pistol was pointed at me; the KGB officer was obviously dead serious. “You’re under arrest, here is the prosecutor’s warrant.”