КАМУНІКАТ / Annus Albaruthenicus 2006 Год Беларускі 2006

History is too important to be left to historians. This is particularly true in a country like Belarus where the nation’s heritage has been suppressed, denied and distorted to an exponential degree during the 19th and 20th centuries. Where historians have failed, it has fallen to writers, far the most important of which are Uładzimir Karatkievič and his natural successor Uładzimier Arłoŭ,[1] to restore knowledge of and interest in the nation’s historical heritage. This has, naturally, been an uphill task when, for instance, Arłoŭ’s professor of Belarusian history at university was one of the principal falsifiers of the country’s past, Łaŭrenci Abecedarski, the main author of amongst other things the standard school history textbook, as well as the six volume history of the BSSR and other official publications (Abetsedarskii 1965).[2] Arłoŭ in an essay with the evocative title ‘Niby pramień soniečny’ (Apparently a ray of sunshine, 1991), gives a vivid but unsensational description of one instance of the many vigorous attempts to suppress the Belarusian historical heritage, by, amongst others, the Orthodox Church and the country’s political leader, Piotr Mašeraŭ, when attempts were made to restore the relics of Saint Euphrosyne of Połacak (c. 1120-1173) to their proper resting place (Arłoŭ 1994a, 325-63 [362-65]). Also in 1994 Arłoŭ published an influential history book, Tajamnicy połackaj historyii (Secrets of the history of Połacak), which over the ensuing decade was revised, and reprinted five times (Arłoŭ 1994b; a Russian language version of it came out in 1995).

Few would doubt that Arłoŭ’s main contribution to Belarusian literature has been as a historical novelist, and his first book attracted considerable critical attention, despite the fact that he was at that time a ‘provincial’ writer, at a distance from the literary establishment in Miensk. His works appear to be far less reviewed nowadays, partly, no doubt, because of his outspokenness on a variety of issues.[3] He does, however, have a very extensive and loyal readership who appreciate his narrative skill in bringing the past alive, the elegant yet earthy style and language of his writing, particularly in lively dialogue, and also his sense of often ironic humour deployed in vivid accounts of contemporary life, especially his own experiences as a young man and those of other his friends in Połacak.[4] Arłoŭ’s poetry, too, has many admirers. He has also performed invaluable educational work, participating in pictorial and other history books designed to raise the national consciousness of readers of all ages. In any account of contemporary Belarusian literature after Karatkievič and Bykaŭ, Arłoŭ occupies a central place.

Uładzimier Arłoŭ was born in Novapołack on 25 August 1953; his father was a lawyer and his mother a historian. Graduating from the History Faculty of BDU in 1975, he taught history for a year in a local school before working on a trade newspaper, Khimik (The Chemist), becoming in time assistant editor. In 1988 he moved to Miensk and worked for the ‘Mastackaja litaratura’ publishing house before being sacked for ‘publishing doubtful historical and other literature’ together with V. Siomucha and Ryhor Baradulin (Skobła 2003, 658). He also worked in the enterprising literary organization, Krynica (The spring), and became Vice-President of the Belarusian Pen Club in 1989. He was awarded the Lenin Komsomol prize for his first book, and later awarded a Francis Skaryna medal for his writing as a whole.

Arłoŭ’s first book was a very promising start that displayed many of the features of his later fiction, notably the mixture of historical and contemporary themes, with the majority of the latter infused with a sense of history and the neglected national heritage. Edited free of charge by Michaś Stralcoŭ[5] and introduced by a leading Belarusian historian Jaŭhien Lecka, Dobry dzień, maja Šypšyna (Good day, my Briar-rose, 1986) consists of fourteen short stories concluding with a novella; the latter, ‘I viartaliś my....’ (And we returned...), is one of the most interesting items in the book. The central character, Raman Hałubovič, is a nationally conscious young Belarusian who inspires the other characters: a somewhat disorientated girl, Janina; a writer Vasil Maksimavič; and museum director Biaspierstych. The story’s theme is spelled out in an excerpt from Raman’s diary:

...the past can punish us for ignoring it even more terribly. We ourselves can turn into the Present, without a Future, and, thus, always remain the Past. (Arłoŭ 1986, 45)

Even more striking, however, is the very first diary entry: ‘If people around you are asleep, that means you have not awoken them’ (Arłoŭ 1986, 45). He is clearly an authorial character, steeped in the history of his country, and the story shows just how difficult it is to preserve and propagate a national message when those in power are determined to suppress any patriotic feelings as ‘nationalism’. In the novella Raman and his young friends attempt to celebrate Christmas in the traditional way but are halted by official vigilantes (družynniki) and arrested. Vasil Maksimavič uses his influence to get the young people freed, and the episode turns into a defining moment for him, arousing distant memories:

I returned to my village, to my childhood on a Christmas evening with this same straw star and with ancient songs beneath the shimmering scattering of stars in the night sky. When, in what century had it been? Will it really only remain in books and films?.. (Arłoŭ 1986, 148)

Later this writer will support his young friends’ protest at the proposal to use a fine old 15th-century church as a store for mineral fertilizers. ‘I viartaliś my...’ ends tragically with Raman’s premature death, but each of the main characters has been inspired by his clear and unswerving belief in the need to preserve national honour and history in the face of official opposition and indifference. An important part of this lies in the Belarusian language, and already in his first book Arłoŭ shows great skill in differentiating the various narrative voices and points of view, avoiding a direct authorial voice. Together with his sometimes wicked satirical humour, and ability to characterize by poignant contrast (for instance, of Vasil Maksimavič with the boorish Bazyl) all lend Arłoŭ’s inspiring novella flair and readability.

Several of the short stories in this first book also deserve mention. ‘Troje nad Atłantydaj’ (Three above Atlantis) features Kastuś, a less confident version of Raman, who is a beginning writer beset by doubts as to the value of his work:

Why do you write? Who needs your history, your great princes and bloody battles, your swallowing of the dust of archival manuscripts which have lain for centuries as dead material and which after you will again interest only the rats? Who? A handful of young men like you with their museum? (Arłoŭ 1986, 85)

In the book’s title story Usiasłaŭ tells his beloved, Šypšyna, about his namesake, the 11th-century Prince Usiasłaŭ the Bewitcher, explaining the latter’s name, and hoping that future generations will not need to have it explained to them.[6] Finally may be mentioned ‘Maŭklivy manałoh’ (A wordless monologue), which is a concise, at times laconic, but historically rich little story about an ancient peasant carving of St Peter. The ‘point of view’ is the statue’s and the events and characters of the statue’s history are shown, with great skill, at one remove. This story, no less than the others mentioned so far, shows Arłoŭ’s easy handling of historical material in a variety of genres and formats, revealing in this case, as in so many others, the parlous security and presentation of Belarus’s cultural riches.

If Dobry dzień, maja Šypšyna was a highly promising début, Dzień, kali ŭpała strała (The day when an arrow fell), published two years later in 1988 became, in the opinion of several commentators, the book of the decade. It contains two novellas and six stories. The novella of the title is a historically convincing description of the Połacak lands during the Teutonic invasion, relating events drawn from the Lithuanian Chronicle. The hero is Prince Uładzimir of Połacak, presented by Arłoŭ as a positive figure embodying striking features of heroism, wisdom and political astuteness, as, for instance, when he comes to an accommodation with the invaders, in order to reposition and reinforce his resources for further protection of the lands over which he rules. It may be noted at this point that historians take a great interest in and debate publicly Arłoŭ’s fiction, which follows a strong patriotic line, not endorsed by all writers. For instance, an older historical novelist to be considered later, Leanid Dajnieka (b. 1940) depicts Uładzimir in a basically negative light.[7] More important, however, from a literary point of view, than historical perspective, is the way history is actually presented. Dajnieka is a good example of traditional historical writing, whereas Arłoŭ, a more skilful psychologist and stylist, chooses to present historical events through particular details and subtle thought processes, avoiding all panoramas and broad brush pictures. In this respect his approach to great events, mutatis mutandis, might be compared to that of Vasil Bykaŭ.

Returning to the novella, Prince Uładzimir comes alive in Arłoŭ’s work. He has no doubt in the rightness of his cause, but none the less thinks about his position and duties in several passages of indirectly reported introspection such as the following reflection on the heritage he is defending, somewhat as the contemporary writer is trying to preserve it, although there is, of course, no hint of such a parallel in Arłoŭ’s novella:

Beyond him [...] lay the land of his forefathers. Beyond him were the merchants and craftsmen, and the ignorant peasants from the estates and remote villages. Beyond him stood the Cathedral of St Sophia built by Great Prince Usiasłaŭ and the bookish wisdom collected in monasteries and churches. If these alien forces reached the Połacak holy places, if they began to burn books and revise the manuscripts according to their own tradition, his predecessors would rise from their graves, and the land itself would rebel. (Arłoŭ 1988, 20)

The novella’s title comes from a waking dream of Uładzimir as he reflects on his place in the world and in the history of his country. In quoting this central and deeply reflective passage, it is worth mentioning that its sententiousness is only one side of ‘Dzień, kali ŭpała strała’; the novella is also rich in lively dialogue and offers a variety of credible characters. History is really brought alive, even in the thoughts of a worried leader:

A person is not born of their own will, thought the prince lying sleepless. But when he has come into the world he must understand his destiny, and always hold onto that invisible arrow which flies for days and nights, showing each one his path. It flies on until it falls. Then only the memory of a man will remain. With some, for a year, with some others for ever and ever. But he is capable of rejecting this memory, so long as what he has planned is brought to pass.

The people must feed their master. Euphrosyne lived in order in order to sow the seeds of book learning. But he has come to defend the Połacak lands. The time will come and the Knights of the Cross will break their spine.

The other novella in Dzień, kali ŭpala strała is ‘Čas čumy’ (The time of the plague, 1986) featuring the medieval Belarusian poet Mikoła Husoŭski. In particular, it concerns the two years he spent in Rome, having gone there in 1518 as a member of a Polish-Lithuanian diplomatic mission, and being commissioned by the Pope of the time (Leo X) to write a poem (in Latin) about his native country. Carmen de statura feritate ac venatione bisontis (known in Belarusian as Pieśnia pra zubra [The song of the bison]) is, as well as being a fine example of late Latin poetry, a richly detailed source of information about many aspects of 16th-century Belarus, from folklore to historical events great and small, as well as the country’s flora and fauna, and Arłoŭ draws extensively on this material in his novella. As always, however, people occupy centre stage: in this case, Husoŭski, a young girl with whom he falls in love Donna Francesca, his adviser and benefactor Erasmus Vitellius who is a patron of the arts and civil servant, and a pompous minor poet Strozzi who brings some comedy with his attempts to put Husoŭski in his place, absurdly accusing him of simply copying Virgil; Husoŭski, a proud and patriotic man, gives as good as he gets. Erasmus encourages his Belarusian friend to persevere with his poem, despite several difficulties, but at a moment of high tragedy Erasmus dies of the plague in 1522. Arłoŭ’s novella succeeds excellently in bringing both medieval Belarus and the Eternal City alive. It is, moreover, as so often with this writer, not difficult to read some symbolism into the text: does the plague at one level represent the plague of neglect and destruction that has so afflicted Belarus over the centuries?

The Roman Church emerges in a rather worse light in the story that comes next in the book, ‘Misija papskaha nuncija’ (The mission of the papal nuncio, 1984), the story of a papal emissary’s attempts to browbeat and outwit a freethinking Belarusian scientist, Kazimir Łyščynski (c. 1634-1689). Arłou brings both of them alive through some compellingly vigorous dialogue, and, as always, the historical background is unobtrusively but faithfully reconstructed. All the prose in Dzień, kali ŭpała strała is historical, and in ‘Piać mužčyn u leśničoŭcy’ (Five men in a woodcutter’s hut, 1985) the period is that of the anti-Russian uprising of 1863-64 led by Kastuś Kalinoŭski (1838-1864). The times are parlous for the revolutionaries, and their discussions about the best way forward lie at the heart of this compelling story, based on real people. Perhaps the most memorable view is that enunciated by Ludvik Zviaždoŭski nicknamed Tapor (the Axe) (1825-1864). He believes uncompromisingly that ideals can only live if people die for them. Even as they fail in their endeavour, the rebels’ deaths will help others to realize ‘that they are not a herd but a people’ (Arłoŭ 1988, 191). The story ends as the remaining four collect their weapons and set out from the hut.[8]

The 1863-64 uprising is chronologically the latest of the events of the seven or so centuries Arłoŭ has treated fictionally, having begun with the 11th century and Prince Usiasłaŭ the Bewitcher.

Arłoŭ’s next book was of poetry, and it was followed by a major bilingual study of perhaps the most important figure in early medieval Belarusian culture, St Euphrosyne of Połacak whose controversial nature has already been referred to in connection with Arłoŭ’s essay of 1991, ‘Niby pramień soniečny’. The granddaughter of Prince Usiasłaŭ of Połacak, she was born Princess Pradsłava, but in her youth rejected marriage, taking the veil as Euphrosyne in a convent of which her aunt was abbess. Later she founded her own convent and, eventually a monastery. A great educator she has left a lasting monument in the magnificent Church of the Holy Saviour in Połacak. In Jeŭfrasińnia Połackaja / Evrosiniia Polotskaia (Arłoŭ 1992a) we are given a lively and yet scholarly account of the life and works of Belarus’s patron saint, as well as the intriguing story of the disappearance and search for her holy relics, particularly the exceptionally fine cross that was made in 1161 by Łazar Bohša. This is followed by a translation of this study into Russian, made by Arłoŭ himself. A valuable addition is the Saint’s Žycije or Life in its original language and in a modern version, as well as a prayer of 1946 for the Belarusian people. Although not fiction, this book is an excellent example of Arłoŭ’s skill as a popularizer of history.

This may be the place to mention briefly his other two main non-fictional history books, both of which appeared at the turn of the 21st century: Dziesiać viakoŭ biełaruskaj historyi: 862-1918 (Ten centuries of Belarusian history: 862-1918, 2000), a large-format, well illustrated book, comprises some eighty-seven more or less discrete articles many of which had already appeared in the liberal periodical press over preceding years. As so often happens, religious history is far the most contentious part, although there is, of course, nothing in this very useful compendium to begin to compare with the Russian-language history book specially written for the Advanced School for the Militia, for example.[9]

The other large-format book, designed for young schoolchildren, is Adkul naš narod (Where our people comes from, 2000). Its twenty-nine chapters are mostly divided into smaller sections and concluded with a series of questions and tasks relating to the material presented. In a country that has special histories for the militia, and books that attempt to present Russia as the source of all benefits for the Belarusian nation, such a book as Arłoŭ’s deserves a mention that it would certainly not be granted in a country where history is not such a seriously distorted and controversial subject.

Returning to Arłoŭ’s work in historical and other fiction, the next book after the Euphrosyne compilation (published in the same year) was Randevu na manieŭrach (Rendezvous at manoeuvres), a collection of stories and novellas, the first of which, ‘Kala dzikaha pola’ (Near the wild fields, 1987), describes the moment at which the celebrated 12th-century East Slav literary monument, Slovo o polku Igoreve (Igor’’s tale) was being conceived. It ends with a short excerpt from the Tale and, like several other of Arłoŭ’s stories, is well supplied with annotation, to clarify the names of ancient Slav gods, variant spelling of names and so on. As always, the aim is to entertain and instruct. The intriguingly named title story of this collection, with annotations of Latin and French expressions, is set in the Russian suppression of Kalinoŭski’s Uprising, and depicts an assignation of love between Miss Ludovika and a Russian officer which breaks down comically on politico-linguistic grounds. It provides a good example of the humour that is frequently not far from the surface of Arłoŭ’s writing. Having explained why he has been examining people’s letters, the officer cannot understand his companion’s dismay:

‘Miss Ludvika, it seemed to me that you... Are you feeling ill?.. Thank God... Some water perhaps?.. Good, but in that case I allow you only a little sip. I do not like the colour of your face.

Perhaps we could finally drop this theme?.. What happened to those three... Miss Ludvika... Do you insist? Alright then, if you insist... War has its own laws. Terrible laws, Miss Ludvika. These people [the anti-Russian insurgents — ABMcM] knew what they were in for...

your words? Madam! How do you permit yourself to speak to a Russian officer?! How dare you?!’ (Arłou 1992b, 190)

Perhaps the most interesting work in this collection, however, is the novella ‘Sny impieratara’ (The Emperor’s dreams, 1990) set in 1812. At the centre of this intriguing tale are Napoleon and a mysterious woman in white (conceivably representing Belarus itself). Again, this time to the French Emperor, a woman is the source of unfamiliar and unwelcome words, as in the following short extracts:

The light touch of hands... A glass of burgundy. The green shadows are thickening and becoming almost black. The bird of night lowers itself onto the city.

She does not pull her hand away, does not avert her eyes, but begins to say amazing, completely unexpected words.

‘My emperor... You have freed the peasants in the duchy of Warsaw. Now in our provinces they are also awaiting liberation from serfdom.’

‘My emperor... Do not forget that the glory of the strong lies in the freedom of the weak...’

‘My emperor... You are greeted everywhere as a liberator, but many of our nobility live in the depths of the countryside and fear this liberation, as the devil fears the cross.’

She is, after all, [thinks Napoleon] allowing herself too much. It probably seems to her that she is carrying out some great mission. Well, tonight she could say anything she wanted.

‘My emperor, if you forget your words, if you do not restore our freedom, the Almighty will curse you...’

This historical mystery story ends with her appearance to him as he lies sick and depressed:

The second half of Randevu na manieŭrach comprises a number of stories, including the already mentioned highly ironic account of five generations of the narrator’s family, ‘Moj radavod da piataha kalena, abo sproba paźbiehnuć vyhnańnia’, where names play a part in the process of Russification or, alternatively, in the assertion of national identity and values. Arłoŭ is particularly sharp when depicting self-opinionated stupidity, as in the following exchange:

‘Undérstand, writer? ¡No pasarán!, as comrade Allende used to say, blessed be his memory. Alright, don’t take offence. My fa-mi-ly line for five gene-ra-tions... What does that mean — for five generations? What’s it about?’

‘Well, that’s bloody fantastic, old chap!’ — for some reason my neighbour is overjoyed. ‘It has nothing to do with males.’

He thinks for a moment and, as a result of some mysterious calculations praises my intention:

‘And in general, you know, it’s high time you did something like that, for the people.’

He starts telling me some ancient story about a woman who was a gynaecologist and plumber, and then yet another story about a gynaecologist and two Georgians, and it dawns on me that my neighbour has clearly muddled genealogy with gynaecology. To inspire me to create a new literary work, he additionally pulls out of his pocket and sets out on the table a pack of pornographic cards.

Uładzimier Arłoŭ is a many-sided writer at the height of his powers. A subtle stylist who is also capable of describing contemporary events and people with devastating realism, a profoundly educated historian whose novels and non-fictional studies have done more than anyone else to keep alive the tradition and reality of the national conscience and identity without which there can be no political or spiritual independence.

Belarus needs far more people to follow this writer’s inspired example of relating past and present, and of seeing the vital importance of a well understood and appreciated past for a nation to have a worthwhile future as a sovereign state. Arłoŭ is indeed a vital figure in contemporary Belarusian literature, and his importance is hard to exaggerate.

No other Belarusian authors come near to the significance of Karatkievič and Arłoŭ in the field of historical prose, but several have also written novels and novellas on historical themes, some of them very talented, and this aspect of their work will be reviewed here. They are, incidentally, very far being the only writers who write about history: Kanstancin Tarasaŭ (b. 1940), Leanid Dajnieka (b. 1940), Volha Ipatava (b. 1945), Hienrich Dalidovič (b. 1946), Vitaŭt Čaropka (b. 1961), Andrej Fiedarenka (b. 1964) and Aleś Paškievič (b. 1972). It is a good sign, foreseen by Arłoŭ himself, that not only the older generation, but also younger writers are deeply interested in their country’s past and the propagation of knowledge about it through literature.

* * * TARASAŬ Kanstancin Tarasaŭ was born in Miensk on 10 October 1940. After a variety of physical jobs, he in 1967 began work as an editor and in 1975 became a journalist, combining this occupation with editorial work for Neman (1977-83) and Litaratura i mastactva (1986-87); over the years 1989-95 he held the post of deputy editor of the historiographical journal Spadčyna. Tarasaŭ, who writes in both Belarusian and Russian, published his first literary work in 1976, and his first collection of novellas appeared in 1981. Amongst his historical fiction in the Belarusian language, the most important books are Try žyćci kniahini Rahniedy (The three lives of Princess Rahnieda, 1986), Pahonia na Hrunvald (The Pahonia to Grünwald, 1991),[10] and Apošniaje kachańnie kniazia Mindoŭha (The last love of Prince Mindoŭh, 1998). Over the last decade he has also produced several history books, including one for children, as well as engaging in various forms of educational work. Finally may be mentioned his detective stories and extensive publicist writing. Amongst the non-fictional history books, Kryž pamiaci (Tarasaŭ 2000b) is an account of all the disasters — military, political, ecological and so on — that Belarus has suffered over the past millennium.

The Battle of Grünwald in 1410 was a notable date in Belarusian history, when the combined forces of the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, led by King Jahajła, inflicted a famous defeat on the Teutonic Knights. In Tarasaŭ’s novel the characters of the noble leaders of both sides are the main object of attention, rather than the strategies and manoeuvres of what is probably the most important battle in Belarusian history, although he does not shirk from descriptions of cruelty and bloodshed. In general, the novelist is concerned with blame and responsibility, but here, where the outcome is a well-known and relatively clear-cut historical fact, he concentrates on portraying the various leaders, attempting to reveal their motives and particularly their attitude to their own power and its preservation. Amongst those who figure prominently are Grand Dukes Jahajła, Keistut and Vitaŭt, the Czech and Polish kings, and the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights. Vitaŭt himself reflects on the nature of power in the following passage:

Whoever struggles for power must be harsh. Trust no one, spare no one, if you fight, fight to the death. Power is a sword. The princely crown brooks no competition. And he who has enjoyed the sweet taste of power and has lost power — he is triply dangerous. (Tarasaŭ 1997, 187)

Later, however, Vitaŭt himself is also forced to acknowledge the force of fate, like many other characters in Tarasaŭ’s fiction:

... it is impossible to halt the changefulness of life; people come and depart, love blossoms and fades — it is fate, and you cannot complain about it. (Tarasaŭ 1997, 187)

In Try žyćci kniahini Rahniedy a certain fatalism is also prominent. As the heroine herself observes:

... no one can know their own or anybody else’s life in advance. Therefore one must bow ones head, acknowledging the power and mystery of fate.

The story of Princess Rahnieda, one of the most important female figures in Belarusian history, and Prince Vladimir of Kiev, in the words of historian Jan Zaprudnik, ‘epitomizes the early north-south axis of Belarus’s history and Połacak’s struggle for independence’ (Zaprudnik 1993, 12). Rahnieda’s first life is tragic: her parents and two of her brothers are slain, and she is taken in marriage by force, living in misery with the violently bloodthirsty and unfaithful Prince Vladimir, more or less as a prisoner (now named Princess Goreslava) until she finds the strength to begin another life, having decided to take revenge on those who have wronged her: ‘a new soul entered her with sudden pain through a ray of sunshine’ reflected on her guard’s knife (Tarasaŭ 1997, 38). After a failed attempt on Vladimir’s life, she is defended and supported by her son Iziasłaŭ, and the Prince spares them, founding a town near Miensk, named after Iziasłaŭ (later, Zasłaŭje). Rahnieda spent the last part of her life in a monastery nearby, dying in about the year 1000. These characters and events are all vividly summarized in the chronicles, and Tarasaŭ is successful in bringing them to life in a historical narrative, without sentimentality or idealism.

The third of this writer’s historical novellas is Apošniaje kachańnie kniazia Mindoŭha, a tale of a far less admirable character than Rahnieda, set in the second half of the 13th century. The love in the title is of old Prince Mindoŭh’s feeling for the sister of his dead wife, but he comes across as a man of exceptionally harsh character, with ‘a bite like a viper’ and ‘a hateful face with faded watery eyes’ who ‘cannot sleep properly unless he has drunk blood’ (Tarasaŭ 2000a 36). In fact, for better or worse, there are no really positive characters in this book. His son Vojšałak, for instance, seems to be a man of God, anxious only to eliminate pagan elements in the Christian faith, but, in fact, behind the monastery walls plans alliances that will enable him to seize power for himself. Once again, the characters are presented convincingly (the writer has a fairly free rein, as few details survive in the chronicles), but they are very unattractive in their naked ambition and ruthless selfishness. As a result, perhaps, the novella does not have the sense of inspiration of the other two books discussed above.

In Pahonia na Hrunvald Tarasaŭ, as has been mentioned, gives a stirring account of a central event in Belarusian history. His account of Rahnieda’s terrible and yet inspiring experiences brings to life a legendary character, and in his picture of old Mindoŭh he, indirectly, challenges some Belarusian historians in portraying this ostensibly reprehensible character as one of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania’s founding fathers. Workmanlike rather than hugely original in purely literary terms, Tarasaŭ’s historical prose is useful in bringing alive events that should be known to all Belarusians as part of their heritage.

* * * DAJNIEKA Another popular and proficient writer best known for his historical works is Leanid Dajnieka (b. 1940). Three novels are particularly important in this respect: Mieč kniazia Viački (1987), awarded the Mielež Prize in 1988, Śled vaŭkałaka (A trace of the werewolf, 1988), awarded the Kalinoŭski Prize in 1990, and Žaleznyja žałudy (Iron acorns, 1990). The author was born on 28 January 1940 into a peasant family in the village of Zmitraŭka — 2, in the Kličaŭ district of the Mahiloŭ region. His literary career began in 1961 with poetry.

The three components of Dajnieka’s historical trilogy have been issued by a publishing house specializing in books for schoolchildren, and they are accessible to the younger reader through their easy language, vivid characters and lively plots. They are, however, also well constructed in a way that underlines their historical message. The first of them, Mieč kniazia Viački, for instance, begins with a ‘Słova na darohu’ (A word at the outset) and a rather shorter ‘Słova na raźvitańnie’ (A word at parting). All the novels are rich in imagery, much of it traditional in Belarusian literature and, particularly, folklore (oaks, birches and storks figure especially frequently), with many repetitions and a strong reliance on sentient nature to reflect the moods and even deeds of the characters. Another shared feature is the introduction of folksongs and legends, something that the author regards as a necessary component of historical writing. In the preface to the first novel, for example, he writes:

Suppositions and legends... Without legends history loses its attractiveness, its mysteriousness. It is like a sky without stars. (Dajnieka 2000, 8)

The novels of this trilogy do not relate events in a historically chronological order: Mieč kniazia Viački is set at the beginning of the 13th century, Śled vaŭkałaka in the 11th, and Žaleznyja žałudy in the middle of the 13th.

All three novels combine real with fictional characters, both depicted with some verve. In the first of them, Prince Viačka is a relatively minor historical figure, defending his princedom of Kukienos at a time of internecine, often religious, conflict, intensified by the invasion of the Teutonic Order. Dajnieka’s novels are redolent of patriotism, not least in the person of his hero Viačka who provides inspiration to all around him, and, in so doing, becomes a prime target for his enemies. One of the many repeated phrases in the novel clearly signals the leader’s impending fate at this complex and difficult historical period of Belarusian history: ‘Viačka’s swan song was beginning’ (Dajnieka 2000, passim). Nature is used extensively to reflect and illustrate the bloody events taking place, and the river Dźvina occupies a particularly central place, both in the unfolding of events and also in the imagery of the novel. The following characteristic passage describing Viačka after battle provides an illustration of Dajnieka’s colourful narrative manner:

Amidst the violence and noise of life, amidst the clashing of swords, amidst the sounds of the campaign trumpets, there gradually developed a quietness, filled with pain and resonant with grief, but as imperceptible as male tears. And he was amidst this uneasy quiet, like an uninhabited sandy island amidst the waves of the Dźvina. He was alone. (Dajnieka 2000, 38-39)

Shortly after this passage we are given a glimpse of the Prince’s essentially pagan beliefs, beginning with one of the many references in these novels to rain:

Viačka stood alone in the darkness, listening intently to the sobbing of the rain. By now it was autumn rain, dead rain. It could give strength to neither crops nor grass. Nothing now grew under this rain, only stones. That stones grew had been told to Viačka by his father Barys Davydavič. And Viačka believed that stones grew — both youthful stones the size of acorns, and heavy boulders which were several centuries old. (Dajnieka 2000, 39)

Nature is ever present as an accompaniment to men’s thoughts and deeds, at both quiet and dramatic moments, as, for instance, when Viačka has set fire to Kukienos towards the end of the novel: ‘Alongside the Prince a young oak rustled its leaves’ (Danieja 2000, 310). The trilogy is both poetic and dramatic, and one further example of Dajnieka’s use of personification underlines the centrality of the river Dźvina:

... at times it seems that his beloved river chokes, writhes in convulsions, blackens and seems about to disappear under the earth, to dissolve in the sands and marshes, if only to avoid seeing the damage and abuses that had settled on its banks. (Dajnieka 2000, 41)

Mieč kniazia Viački ends in long anticipated tragedy, but the overall impression of this, like Dajnieka’s other historical novels, is of great pride in Belarus’s complex, troubled and heroic history. For instance, after taking advice from the self-styled immortal old woman Małanka, Viačka who is near to death declares:

I would give all my people water from the storm to drink. My people! What strength, bravery and endurance live in them! [...] Such a people never die. I am happy that I have lived and am living with such a people. I am happy, for I have heard the cry of a werewolf by the Dźvina. (Dajnieka 2000, 322)

Werewolves find their way into the very title of Dajnieka’s second historical novel and it is worth noting that in Belarusian folklore they can be both sinister and friendly to people and to military endeavours. In Śled vaŭkałaka, already mentioned briefly in connection with Arłoŭ, the epilogue begins: ‘On a bright spring morning in Połacak above the Chamber they heard the happy cry of a werewolf’ (Dajnieka 2001, 346). In Dajnieka’s novel the central hero Usiasłaŭ the Bewitcher is given a relatively unfavourable portrait. This most famous great grandson of Rahnieda had defeated the Polovtsians in many battles, but he is portrayed here as a controversial figure, revered by his immediate colleagues, but heartily disliked by rival princes. Boyar Čudzin, for instance, having just proposed that Usiasłaŭ be discreetly murdered, calmly explains his reasons thus:

Usiasłaŭ is a dangerous force for evil. He is worshipped by peasants and servants. His name is written in blood on their forest shrines by believers in pagan gods. He is a bad tooth in a healthy mouth. (Dajnieka 2001, 239)

Historically this does, indeed, seem to have been a very mixed time for Usiasłaŭ, and Dajnieka has to use his imagination extensively, dwelling, as has been mentioned, on the negative aspects of his rule, although the summing up in the epilogue is not so negative:

Prince Usiasłaŭ, like a bright star, raced across the troubled sky of the 11th century. Under his rule the princedom of Połacak achieved its greatest power. (Dajnieka 2001, 346)

One thing of which the author was entirely certain — the vital importance of historical memory — is proclaimed in the novel by the pagan god Piarun: ‘He who easily rejects the past is not worthy of the future’ (Dajnieka 2001, 136).

At the centre of the third novel of the trilogy, Žaleznyja žałudy, is Prince (later, King) Mindoŭh (Mindaugas) who from his base in the west Belarusian town of Navahradak through military conquest consolidated the new confederation initially known as the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Ruś. As in the previous novels, Dajnieka attempts to reveal the character of a leader who, for all his ruthlessness and military success, is also beset by quarrelling princelings, united only by their hatred for him. Particularly unpopular was Mindoŭh’s introduction of Christianity ‘from the East’, and then his switch from Orthodoxy to Catholicism. But his main task was to build a state strong enough to resist both the Teutonic Order and the Tatar Horde, two implacable forces that oppressed not only Mindoŭh’s people, but also his own family. In the novel it is internal problems of the state rather than external conflicts that predominate.

Žaleznyja žałudy employs synchronic description of historical events, and, as the novel progresses, makes increasingly precise use of dates: on the day of Mindoŭh’s death, for instance, we read, ‘On the morning of 5 August 1263 a thunderstorm burst’ (Dajnieka 1993, 300). At the other times, however, reality is less concrete and, indeed, some mythical figures from pagan times also play a part, notably the soothsayer Vałasač, guardian of the holy flame, Źnič. It seems that here, as in the preceding novels, folklore and the heritage of paganism is depicted by the author in a far from negative light, almost as a stable belief system before the conflicts that came with Christianity. The importance of remembering the past for national survival is stressed once again: ‘One must learn historical memory. There is no other way, if we wish to remain a people’ (Dajnieka, 1993, 8).

Dajnieka’s historical novels are undoubtedly very readable, with lively style and dramatic action. Rich in imagery, varied in narrative manner, and immediately appealing, the trilogy offers a valuable guide to Belarus’s past and should serve to inspire national pride and awareness, particularly in youthful readers. Vital though the writing of historical fiction may be, however, Dajnieka appears to have been resting on his laurels since the turn of the century, and has founded a distillery at Staryja Darohi.

* * * IPATAVA Volha Ipatava achieved distinction in poetry before turning to prose, and has made an important contribution both to Belarusian lyric verse and to historical writing. Born on 1 January 1945 in the little town of Mir in the Kareličy district of Miensk region, she was the daughter of a Russian, caught in the German encirclement,[11] whose ancestors had been exiled from Belarus for taking part in Kalinoŭski’s uprising of 1863. Eleven when her mother died in 1956, she was brought up in a children’s home until she was able to go to university where she studied in the Russian Faculty of BDU. Holding several important posts in television and print journalism she encouraged liberal tendencies, even in the second half of the 1990s after the present regime had taken hold. A sensitive, introspective poet but bold and outspoken citizen, Ipatava is one of the most significant writers of her generation. A reflective, rather than philosophical poet, she shows deep understanding of her characters in both verse and prose, and possesses a vivid imagination expressed in imagery, plot construction and convincing reconstruction of historical characters. In the years 2000-02 she was Chairwoman of the Union of Belarusian Writers, and recently, a leading critic, Lidija Savik, has produced a valuable monograph on her work (Savik 2003).

Volha Ipatava began her literary career in 1959, and published four books of verse before turning to prose. She has also written several books for children. Four books of prose have appeared to date: Dvaccać chvilin z Niemiezidaj (Twenty minutes with Nemesis, 1981), Pierakat (Transformation, 1984), Za moram Chvalynskim (Over the Caspian Sea, 1989), and Alhierdava dzida (Alhierd’s pike, 1986). Ten years later she produced a bilingual (Belarusian and German) book about the historical aspects of the road between Moscow and Warsaw: Ipatava 1996.

From her earliest poems, Ipatava appears to draw strength and independence from places linked with Belarusian history and tradition, such as, for instance, ‘Jość u Hrodna vulicy, niby hai ptušynyja...’ (In Horadnia the streets are like groves with birds..., 1966), ‘Hrodzienščyna’ (Horadnia region, 1968), ‘U Miry’ (In the town of Mir, 1975), ‘Brasłaŭ (1975) and, particularly, ‘Na vulicy Zamkavaj’ (On Castle Street, 1969), in which a sense of the past gives the poet comfort and confidence to pursue her mission, as we see from the following excerpt:

Толькi ходзiць ля сцeн старажытных бясшумна Побач з вeкам дваццатым трынаццаты вeк.

Very many of Ipatava’s poems have historical themes, anticipating her later work as a novelist. They include ‘Rahnieda’ (1973), ‘Usiasłaŭ’ (1972) and ‘Połackaj Safii’ (To the cathedral in Połacak), all exuding patriotic pride and that sense of the past that only comes from love and learning. One particularly fine recent historical poem is ‘Vyhnańnie połackich kniazioŭ u Vizantyju, hod 1129’ (The driving of the Połacak princes to Byzantium in 1129):

Euphrosyne figures in several of Ipatava’s works, and her position as a woman with womanly feelings, despite her religious calling, is emphasized.

Ipatava started writing prose fiction at the beginning of the 1970s, and has gradually moved away from poetry towards this genre. Indeed, in his introduction to her first prose collection, Viecier nad stromaj (Wind over the current), Vasil Bykaŭ commented that her work showed ‘the features of a born prose writer’ (Savik 1995, 234). Although nearly twenty years after that she continued to write fine poetry,[14] it is for prose that she is most highly regarded nowadays. Not all of Ipatava’s prose is historical, but it is in the latter genre that she has made the greatest contribution. Several shorter works deserve mention, including ‘Śviatasłava’ (1975), ‘Vaŭkałakam abiarnusia’ (I’ll turn into a werewolf, 1984), ‘Hajna i Mikaš (Hajna and Mikaš), ‘Mara’ (The dream) and ‘Davyd Haradzienski’ (David of Horadnia), the last three all from Ipatava 1989. Particularly significant, judging by the storm it aroused when first published in 1971, was ‘Pradysłava’, an inspiring portrait of the person who became Saint Euphrosyne, as a red-blooded woman in love with a handsome commoner (with the traditionally Belarusian flaxen hair and cornflower eyes), who gave up her only love in order to serve her people as a leader. In may be remembered that at the time this work was written Soviet policy was to erode national and linguistic divisions within the single ‘indestructible Union’.[15]

People think that I was always a woman of books. Only that. That there was only service to God and renunciation. Oh, no! I, apart from that, was born with the hot blood and passionate soul of a woman. It is just that I was able to conquer myself, could hide it all in my soul. I was able to for one goal — service to my people. (Ipatava 1977, 156)

The powerful spirit of the young woman pervades this wide-ranging novella, and most of the ideas of patriotism, of national awareness, as well as of female feelings, are conveyed through Pradysłava’s internal monologues, as she struggles to protect the independence of the kingdom of Połacak, threatened from outside by external military threat but principally riven from within by feuding princelings, self-interested churches and ruthless commercial interests. Like the author, however, Euphrosyne has a positive outlook, marvelling at the resilience of her people who have brought Połacak fame beyond the seas, a fame she tries to teach her compatriots to foster and preserve. The story of this woman’s heroism makes a stirring story, and it is not surprising that those who followed faithfully every slight shift in Soviet policy were alarmed at such an outspoken and nationally conscious work.

Ipatava also brings her sensitive awareness of female psychology to the novella ‘Čornaja kniahinia’ (The black princess) from Ipatava 1989b, which is set in the mid-16th century, a time of ideological and political ferment. Against the background of the Polish royal court and the palaces of the nobles in the Grand Duchy we witness the fates of various women, descendants of Kanstancin Astrožski. Through their various interior monologues, as well as dialogues, we see the beginning of the end for the Grand Duchy, doomed to assimilation with a concomitant decline in national awareness, a tragedy for the Belarusian people.

The beginning of the 17th century is the setting for the novella ‘Ahoń u žyłach kremieniu’ (Fire in the veins of flint, 1989), a work which has many of the hallmarks of this writer’s historical writing: real historical figures, treated with great flair and imagination, but with several purely fictional characters, including (and this is very typical of Ipatava) representatives of the people, caught up in the religious and political disputes of the time. The main characters are Leŭ Sapieha, author of the third edition of the celebrated Statut Vialikaha Kniastva Litoŭskaha (Statute of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, 1588), and King Kazimir’s emissary Piotr Skarha. But whilst Sapieha is not opposed to Catholicism as such, he resists all attempts to Polonize his people. An important moment is when Skarha challenges the Lithuanian (Belarusian) leader over the language (known to linguists as Middle Belarusian) of the Statute which had become famous throughout Europe, using the type of specious argument that, sadly, can be heard in Belarus nowadays from ill-informed people at all levels of society: Skarha asks Sapieha why he has used ‘a language that no one, except peasants, needs any more’ (Ipatava 1989a, 81). The question of religion is more important to some other characters in the novel than it is to Sapieha. One character, Ściapan, considers preserving the religion of his birth a matter of honour:

If I disavow the language of my parents, I shall become a werewolf [...] And it is not all the same to me if I have to disavow my father and spit on my mother. They won’t even consider me their son! (Ipatava 1989a, 91)

The novella ‘Ahoń u žyłach kremeniu’ shows a peasant family split by religious differences, demonstrating its author’s concern to show how every one is affected by the conflicts caused and conducted by persons of state: two orphaned brothers, the elder Janka, and the younger Aleś, are tragically divided, with the older boy remaining loyal to the memory of his parents, and the younger joining the service of the actively Polonizing Piotr Skarha. Before leaving this exciting novella, it is worth mentioning that not everyone shares the present writer’s enthusiasm for Ipatava’s historical writing: she is taken to task in the ever-critical Arche for a false portrayal of peasants and nobles alike (Žukoŭski 2003, 133).

Za moram Chvałynskim (Beyond the Caspian Sea, 1989) is different from most other Belarusian historical novels. Beginning in the Połacak region in the reign of Prince Bračysłaŭ, when Usiasłaŭ the Bewitcher was still young, it tells the story of a blacksmith’s son of the latter’s age, Aleksa. The book opens calmly, but when Aleksa’s beloved Biaroza, is sold by Bračysłaŭ to a merchant from Bukhara, he sets off in search of her over many lands and the sea of the title, fearing for his life at having defied the Prince’s will. When he reaches Bukhara, however, Biaroza refuses to return with him to Połacak, having settled down and given birth to a son by a local man, Abdurachmanbiek. In time Aleksa finds another wife, but when already pregnant, she and his inspirational teacher of medicine are both cut down by Muslim fanatics, and Aleksa is again alone. Turning to the study of Eastern medicine he becomes a learned scholar and is preparing to write a book, but on his return journey to Połacak dies while trying to rescue his manuscript after an attack by pirates. Aleksa is portrayed as embodying both patriotism and the native resources of the Belarusian people, enabling them to master the science and skills of other countries. This richly plotted and colourful novella stands out, in the context of Belarusian historical writing, for its picture of Central Asia in the middle ages.

Finally in this review of Volha Ipatava’s historical work may be just mentioned a trilogy of novels devoted to the setting up of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: Alhierdava dzida (Alhierd’s pike), Załataja žryca Ašvinaŭ (The golden priestess of the Ašviny) and Viaščun Hiedzimin (Hiedzimin the Soothsayer). Published together in 2002, these works are set in a relatively neglected period of Belarusian history, the middle of the 13th century. They confirm Ipatava as not only a fine lyric poet, and bold public figure, but also as an inspiring historical novelist whose works should help to build much need national awareness in her beloved native land.[16]

Hienrych Dalidovič is a prolific writer who brings a strongly documentary element to his fiction. He himself claims to have little imagination (Kuźmič 1999, 54), and aspects of his life, particularly childhood and youth, are reflected in many parts of his work. He is also an enthusiastic writer whose books enjoy popularity with readers and critics alike for their mastery of language, lively plots and sound psychology. He has moreover played a useful part in the literary process during his period as a very committed editor of Maładość. At the start of the new century, Dalidovič’s writing appears to fall into two categories, albeit far from rigid ones. On the one hand are the many stories and novellas about young people and the teaching profession as practiced in rural areas; on the other, he has made a strong contribution to awareness of Belarusian history through fiction and non-fiction alike, and it is with historical novels that he seems likely to make the greatest impact. Since the autobiographical strain in his work is so strong, it is worth outline his early life in some detail.

Hienrych Dalidovič was born on 1 June 1946 in the village of Jankavičy in the Stoŭbcy region of western Belarus, a place that figures in many of his works. The son of a blacksmith, he studied in the Philological Faculty at BDU, graduating in 1968, the year that his first story in a national publication appeared (two years earlier his very first story came out in a provincial newspaper). A painstaking writer, Dalidovič has rewritten some of his works many times, but his main achievement in ultimate terms lies in his description of the recent and ancient past. Particularly valuable in the former is his experience of two somewhat different types of villages: in western Belarus (under Polish rule before its ‘liberation’ in 1939) and in Soviet Belarus; his attempts to restore the historical record of what happened in the cruel wartime and post-war years is probably as important as his novels set in the middle ages.

Dalidovič’s historical works are set in three main periods: the 13th century, the period around the Revolution of 1917, and the period of collectivization of agriculture after the incorporation of Western Belarus into the BSSR. The novella Žyvy poklič (A living summons, 1983-84) tells the story of two young parents, Vasil and Janina, attempting to reconstruct their lives after the German retreat of 1944-45. Also in a sense historical, it is based on what the author saw and heard as a boy; including, no doubt, the fervent aspirations of the young adults for happiness at both a personal and also a national level. Indeed, by describing the emotional and physical experiences of two individuals Dalidovič is able to convey a convincing overall impression of this very difficult time.

Next in the reverse order of chronological events is the novel Zachodniki that won a state prize, clearly answering a real need for long delayed openness about the cruel events of the past. It is undoubtedly the fullest account in Belarusian literature so far of the harsh treatment of people from Western Belarus who were expected to be grateful to their Soviet liberators, but who, in fact, found themselves even more oppressed than before.[17] Set, like several other of Dalidovič’s works, in and around the village of Jankaviny (a thinly disguised version of the author’s native Jankavičy), it tells the story of old Frańcišak Hryharcevič, a true tiller of the soil who finds his strength and wisdom unwanted and unused by the Soviet bureaucratic functionaries and exploiters who come to set up collective farms in the BSSR’s new territories. His idealistic son, Ściapan, also finds the self-seeking inhumanity of the new rulers make his life impossible. The chief villain, Apanas Kurahladaŭ, was partially based on a collective farm boss Dalidovič had seen as a schoolboy. Kurahladaŭ is an immoral reprobate who understands nothing but his own demagogical formulas and the need to preserve his position. When Frańcišak, for instance, queries the wisdom of destroying the forest, pointing out that neither the Russians in tsarist times nor the Poles between the wars had so threatened the future of the forest and the life it sustains, he is punished for his concern, being accused of anti-Soviet agitation, which eventually leads to his torture, murder and death. The following passage might be found without difficulty in émigré accounts of Soviet atrocities, but is unusual, if not unique, in the context of the newly incorporated Western Belarus:

— I gave in... whimpered the usually taciturn, calm and long suffering old man. Like a child or a tearful woman. — For days they did not let me sleep; one interrogated me, shook me up, then went away and another came to torment and abuse me in his own way... For days on end I stood or sat motionless on a chair. When I fell over they doused me with water. And then they squeezed my fingers in the door... And I could not stand any more and gave in. I signed everything they pushed in front of me. About myself and about you too. Forgive me, dear Ściapan, for my great sin.

The evil character of Kurahladaŭ (nicknamed Kurahščupaŭ, for his roving eye and wandering hands) is built up by various means. Apart from his direct actions and speech, Dalidovič presents extensive extracts from this villain’s self-revelatory diary, and also shows him with various bosses of the district, like Kurłoŭ from the neighbouring village council, Mirzojeŭ, head of the local security services, and Uładaroŭ, first secretary of the district party committee. Not confining himself to taking advantage of other men’s wives, Kurahladaŭ goes out at night to steal from the rural shops, then blaming the forest people. A heavy drinker, he enjoys carousing with his fellow countryman Siarhiejeŭ who, however, allows himself a frankness unthinkable when sober. In Chapter 9, he pours out a stream of home truths about the disastrous state of agriculture and the ruthlessness and ineptness of Stalin (‘Lenin gave us a little land, but Stalin took it back’ — Dalidovič 1994, 63), increasingly alarming Kurahladaŭ:

You and I are fools, Afońka. And in the Kremlin they are crooks and blatherers — Ściapan stuck to his point — They either cannot rule properly or they are deliberately making fun of us, turning us into beggars, so that we should kiss their hands for our scrap of bread. (Dalidovič 1994, 64)

Seeming to change topic, he wonders aloud how his friend Kurahladaŭ had risen so high: ‘You were a crook and bully, but look at you now — a boss’ (Dalidovič 1994, 64). By the end of the chapter, however, Siarhiejeŭ has sobered up enough to declare that he loves Stalin like a father. Although these passages are comic, Kurahladaŭ, at whose hands both Frańcišak and Ściapan have perished, ends the book unrepentant, looking forward to the end of perestroika and the return of firm leadership. Zachodniki is a strong, yet very readable revelatory novel, and undoubtedly one of the Dalidovič’s greatest successes to date.

A trilogy of novels are set in the years immediately before and after the Revolution when Belarus’s fate, like that of Ukraine and, indeed, Russia itself, was entirely in the balance: the prize-winning Haspadar-kamień (The master-stone, 1980-84), Pabudžanyja (Awakened, 1987-89) and Svoj dom (Our own home, 1987-89). Set, like so many of the author’s other works, in the environs of Jankaviny, this time on the eve of the Revolution, it centres on a stone of immense antiquity and almost human size that lies outside the village. The master-stone is portrayed as a silent consultant and repository of folk memory, which can be approached in time of need and which bears witness to the villagers’ painful experiences, as the great political upheavals occurring far away gradually come to affect the already difficult life of Jankaviny. The description of the villagers’ existence is masterful, and, as in Na novy paroh, the insertion of folk songs into the narrative helps to bring out the spiritual qualities of the population, added to which Dalidovič’s skilful use of dialogue and brisk narration make this an outstanding achievement. In Haspadar-kamień life is described as continuing with its regular events and routines, despite the abnormal and alarming happenings elsewhere.

In Pabudžanyja, Zosia and Janka go through a number of dramatic adventures on the eve of World War I and the Revolution. Here the elements of exciting plot are more noticeable than in the first novel of the trilogy, and the introduction of real historical characters broadens the work’s scope, giving it not only a local but also a broader perspective. A relatively long novel, it benefits most from the various peripeteias of the fast-moving narrative line, as well as the development of characters familiar from the preceding work. In some ways, however, the third novel of the trilogy, Svoj dom, is the most interesting, set as it is at the time of acute decision immediately after the Revolution, a subject little treated in Belarusian literature apart from one outstanding novel, contemporary to the events, by Maksim Harecki (1893-1939), Dźvie dušy (Two souls, 1919). The home of Dalidovič’s title is Belarus itself, facing an acute yet confused choices of paths — to assimilation and national annihilation or towards the dream of an independent future in what turned out to be the tragically short-lived BNR. The novel’s historical figures include Stalin, Frunze, the Belarusian leader Čarviakoŭ, and the writer Ciška Hartny (1887-1937), and, indeed, there is already something of the air of a documentary novel, although several fictional (or, at least, fictionalized) characters also appear here. Both categories (though not Stalin) appear in the epilogue where Dalidovič offers notes on the subsequent fates of the heroes of the trilogy (known by the name of its first novel). The trilogy ends on a mixed note:

Action, human fates, fates, fates... How much more needs to be told about our green land with its rivers and lakes, polluted by the Čarnobyl misfortune, about our good, hard working and long suffering people, about my folk from Jankaviny! (Dalidovič 1992, 351)

If the immediate post-Revolutionary events in Belarusian history have not been widely treated in contemporary literature, the same cannot, of course, be said of the early period, and it is in the 13th century that Dalidovič’s Klič rodnaha zvona (The summons of our native bell) is set. Part of this book originally appeared in 1997 under the above title, and won a prestigious prize, but it was republished in greatly expanded form in 2002. In the later edition, the original story forms Book 1 with the title ‘Mir siarod vajny’ (Peace amidst war’) and Book 2 is added with the title ‘Hartunak vajnoju’ (Tempering by war) (the new version of Klič rodnaha zvona, described as a raman-chronika [novel-chronicle] is dated 1995-98). Dedicated to the distinguished historian Mikoła Jermałovič, Dalidovič’s novel about the founding of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania is historically well grounded, although, as is well known, concrete facts about this early period are in short supply.[18] As often with this author, the epilogue is worth attention, since his works give the impression of a project in progress, in the sense that he does not want to close them with a conventional ending,[19] preferring to look forward to the future of his country. In Klič rodnaha zvona the relationship of the Grand Duchy to the expansion of Russian interests is discussed vigorously at various points, and the novel ends with a reflection on Russia’s undemocratic domination of surrounding states,[20] followed by a final very characteristic rhetorical question: ‘Do we or do we not hear the summons of our native bell?’ (Dalidovič 2002, 382).

Dalidovič, whose wife is herself a historian, is at the beginning of the 21st century full of projects for future novels, including one on the Battle of Grünwald. Particularly valuable as a documentary work is the pamphlet about the years 1917-1918 (the subject, of course, of his novelistic trilogy): BNR i BSSR. Rozdum ab pakutnym šlachu biełaruskaj dziaržaŭnaści ŭ XX stahodździ (The BNR and the BSSR: A reflection on the tormented path of Belarusian statehood in the 20th century, 2002).[21] Hienrych Dalidovič at the beginning of the century is one of the most active and openly passionate of the many writers who are deeply concerned by the erosion of their long-suffering country’s national and spiritual identity.

The remaining three writers reviewed here belong to a younger generation than the previous ones. For that reason they can only be discussed on the basis of a selection of their works to date, and may well go on to do other and quite different things. They differ too in the background to their historical writing. If Arłoŭ, for instance, wrote as a reaction against the falsification of Belarusian history propagated by Laŭrenci Abecedarski and his ilk, the younger generation had not only Arłoŭ, but also professional historians such as Mikoła Jermałovič to give stimulus and inspiration.

Vitaŭt Čaropka is an unusual writer by any standards. His outstanding first novel, Chram biez boha (A church without God, c.1986, publ. 1992)[22] was written when he was just over twenty-five, and he has pursued a very independent path since then, refusing, for example, to join the Union of Belarusian Writers. Ironical and fond of paradoxes, he appears to be something of a loner, though not neglected by the critics, enthusiastic and dismissive alike. He is a gifted writer of historical prose, from his first novel set in the early 16th century to a series of semi-documentary accounts of Belarusian history that combine readability with a genuine attempt to marshal the relatively exiguous facts, and reflect new historical discoveries and developments. Čaropka is also the author of prose works on contemporary themes, some of which have received high praise (Čaropka 2000, 7-8). He is undoubtedly a writer to watch in future.

Printed biographical details are scarce: Vitaŭt Čaropka was born in Miensk in 1961, but from the age of three to seven lived with his grandmother in the village of Lićvinava, where he learnt to speak Belarusian (so-called ‘village talk’), something he was never to forget, despite being teased at school for not speaking ‘town talk’ (i.e. Russian). After school and service in the army, he entered Miensk Tractor Plant working in the steel foundry, and it was while he was employed there, at the same time looking after his paralysed mother, that his first novel was written (Čaropka 2001), although he had already published a few historical fragments and sketches before then.

Chram biez boha is the author’s main contribution to historical fiction so far. It centres on the Battle of Kleck against the invading Crimean Tatars in 1506, an important event in the history of the Grand Duchy that had been largely neglected by historical novelists hitherto. The years before and after the battle were fraught with events, including the siege of Słuck, and the narrative is held together mainly through the character of Maciej Lešak, a man who goes from playing a role as leader to betrayal of the national cause — treachery, as has already been noted, was an intermittently recurrent feature in medieval Belarusian history. There are many vividly depicted characters in Čaropka’s rich novel, some historical, and some fictional; the former include the complex figure of Prince Hlinski and Princess Nastaśsia of Słuck. The latter’s leadership freed Słuck from the Tatars, but her rejection of Hlinski’s advances led him to lay siege to the city. Lesser roles are played by King Žyhimont (Sigismund) of Poland, Frašcišak Skaryna, Mikoła Husoŭski and, indeed, many others. In addition to the wealth of personages, the description of settings, interior and exterior, in this novel are also very striking, as is the command of detail about customs and artefacts, clearly showing the self-taught author’s extensive knowledge of the period. Battles are as vividly recreated, as are diplomatic and domestic events, with a fine sense of balance and suspense in the narrative, and the author’s grasp of psychology, though unobtrusive, is sure. In the following passage the normally fluent and scheming Hlinski appears tongue-tied when he visits Princess Nastaśsia:

And this was the man who had crushed the Tatars, who could crawl into the very jaws of death, who could, without a thought, step over boundaries that restrained kings, who met with emperors, kings and khans, whose name was known to all Europe — now it was he who was the outsider. And he was moreover alone. The Princess had not the least doubt who it was. Previously, the Prince had escaped from loneliness into matters of state, but now?.. Previously, he was needed by his many friends, but now?.. Previously, he could hide his sadness in feasting, but now?.. Previously, his voice never quavered, but now?.. The Princess remained silent, the Prince waited for her reply like a wolf.

— Princess, I am very tired by this life: intrigues, envy, scheming and mistakes; all this has forced me to intrigue, deceive, lose my peace of mind, trust no one, and forget what sincerity is. But there exists another life, where there is love and gentleness, where children’s laughter can be heard, where misery can be alleviated by someone you love. I lack that life. Princess, in the name of God, help me. I feel wretched. I love you.

Then she would not know what to reply to the Prince. But Hlinski remained silent, and the cold of this silence penetrated the Princess. She replied:

The overall symbolism of the book, expressed in the title, is clearly that Belarus is a church abandoned by God for its disunity, fickleness, endless wars and disputes, and, indeed, the treacherousness of some of its people. This is a very readable but far from sanguine portrayal of Belarusian history.

In addition to Čaropka’s first major piece of historical fiction, he has produced two large-scale, popular, essentially factual history books written in a belletristic rather than academic style: Imia ŭ letapise (A name in a manuscript, 1994, second edition 2003) and Uładary Vialikaha kniastva (Rulers of the Grand Duchy, 1996).

In an interview, the author with characteristic irony, which some might consider frivolous, described the difference between writing about history and contemporary life:

For me personally, history is literature, and I do not consider myself either an historian or a writer. At times literature can be the history of a people. Although history is the most mythologized sphere of human activity. And in that context it is literature about a people.

I create. When it is fiction, I take an ordinary person and throw him into an unusual situation. When it is history, then, on the contrary, I find an unusual person and describe his actions in an ordinary situation. (Čaropka 2000, 4-5)

Čaropka’s second book of fiction, intriguingly entitled Pieramoha cieniu (The victory of shadow, 1996), contains a rich and varied collection of stories and three novellas. Perhaps one of the least successful of the novellas is, ironically, the only one on a historical theme: ‘Nav’, jav’, prav’’ (Reality, appearance, truth, 1987) is set in the 11th century, and depicts the crusade of Iaroslav the Wise’s Russian forces against Lithuanian Princes Vołak and Vyšak, but the compass of a forty-page novella does not seem sufficient to develop the characters or reveal the springs of action as successfully as he had done in Chram biez boha.

Vitaŭt Čaropka is an interesting and varied writer who continues to make a solid contribution to knowledge about the history of his country, bringing to its fictional description considerable erudition as well as genuine and original flair.

Andrej Fiedarenka is a young writer who has shown unmistakable talent in several fields, and attracted considerable critical attention, positive and negative, for his first historical writing, as well as for works in other genres, not least village prose. Celebrated and, sometimes, reviled for his uncompromising moral stand, it is possible that his turn at the beginning of the century from writing about contemporary, specifically post-perestroika, life to historical prose was a kind of escape, rather than the prime necessity that it was for several of the other writers discussed here. Be that as it may, his main history writing began late.

Born on 17 January 1964 in the village of Biarozaŭka in the Mazyr region of Homiel province, Fiedarenka graduated from Mazyr Polytechnic in 1983 and began creative writing in 1987. For a while he was head of the section of literature and culture of Połymia before that journal was taken under a single editorial umbrella in the interests of political control. It was, however, the distortions of democracy following perestroika that attracted Fiedarenka’s main fire. The anti-democratic shenanigans which came later, such as the castration of editorial independence, may yet provoke the irony of this stubbornly principled, controversial but undoubtedly very talented young man.

Fiedarenka’s first history-related book was Ščarbaty taler (The indented thaler, 1999). In the novella of the title the children who play the main role in it are very different from the disorientated, corrupted young people in the same author’s ‘Smuta’ (Confusion), not that the author is tempted to idealize the three boy and two girl teenagers who happen upon an old map and three silver thalers, and in their holidays set out to seek treasure apparently left behind by Napoleon’s soldiers retreating from Moscow two centuries earlier. The young people are characterized individually and plausibly, and the plot advances briskly through a series of short chapters, each with a descriptive title. ‘Ščarbaty taler’ is a quite different type of detective story from, for example, ‘Cuhcvanh’ (A forced move, 1998) or ‘Łancuh’ (The chain, 1994), but for all its historical theme, it is full of the excitement of the childrens’ calculations and deductions, as well as many incidents, not least due to the activities of two immoral youths, Sieva and Žora, indirectly led by the crippled museum curator, Pavuk, who try to exploit the children’s historical detective work and become rich from the treasure; in the event it turns out that the object of the children’s historical search and the others’ greed had been already discovered at the end of the 19th century. As so often with Fiedarenka, questions of personal morality are to the fore, and the question of language is never far away, often as a central element in national consciousness (for example, the ruthless Pavuk speaks only Russian). Fiedarenka is, however, careful to avoid schematism, and the reader’s perception of several of the characters (especially, another adult, Old Makar) changes during the course of the action. This novella is an excellent example of children’s literature that may also be enjoyed by adults, somewhat in the tradition of Janka Maŭr (1883-1971) and Karatkievič, particularly the latter’s last novel, Čorny zamak Alšanski (The black castle of Alšany, 1979-80),[23] whose plot it echoes in places (see Nienadaviec 2000, 314-15). Translated into Russian as Tri talera (Three thalers), this novella has helped to bring Fiedarenka’s name to a wider audience and raise awareness of Belarus’s past and national aspirations, although, regrettably, some of the specifically national references in the original edition were excised by the censor (Rubleŭskaja 2000, 48).

Fiedarenka’s first fully historical novella was Ničyje (No-one’s, 2001), again with a memorable title, this time reminiscent of another work centred on the problems of Belarusian national identity, Janka Kupała’s play Tutejšyja (The natives, 1922). The subject is the Słuck Uprising, and the treatment of it is not so much a description of the rebels’ bravery or the cruelty of their opponents, but the hopelessness of a venture that was as essential as it was doomed. The two main characters are Žaŭryd and Čajka who grow up at the same time and in the same district:

Both were born in the Słuck region, in neighbouring villages and in the same year, July 1889. Both were called Pavieł. Both ‘studied’ for ten years the same subjects: they herded geese, pigs and horses, climbed into other people’s gardens, cooked potatoes in hot ashes, bathed in the sleepy river Słuč... (Fiedarenka 2001, 67)

Later and in other respects, however, they grew apart: Žaŭryd, a commissar in the rebel forces, was a true believer, an idealist who appeared to have no doubts. Čajka, the commander, on the other hand, had earlier fought with the Bolsheviks, and seemed split in his mind, almost disorientated, seeing very clearly that the Uprising could not succeed, despite his own role as the rebels’ inspirational leader:

What should he do? At thirty he was completely alone, and poor as a church mouse, he had learnt nothing human during his life, only how to fight or, more accurately, how to tell others how they should fight. A man without native land, without family or home, just a crust of bread...

He envies the single-minded belief of the rebels, something he cannot share as he watches the ‘spectacle’, but understands that in their willingness to die for the cause they have a right to everything: ‘to the land, to freedom, to their army, to their Republic, to their language, standard and coat of arms’ (Fiedarenka 2001, 77). At the close of the novella, dismissed but not shot as a possible spy, Čajka finds himself walking without haste or fear: ‘He was free. Finally no-one’s. And almost happy...’ (Fiedarenka 2001, 173).

‘Ničyje’ is a fine example of original and independent history writing, rich in characters, events and details. One unusual example of the latter is the account of the 19th-century beggars of Siemiežava and their very individual language (for instance, kučasta [often]).[24] It is clear that for the author the uprising was not simply a revolt against the Bolsheviks, but, far more importantly, a struggle for a new nationally independent Belarus, and he furnishes his fiction with footnotes intended to throw further light on controversial and curious points in the history of this period. With this book Fiedarenka’s claim to serious consideration as a writer of historical prose is assured, although it also confirms his reputation for unorthodoxy: the journal Neman refused to publish it in Russian translation.

Andrej Fiedarenka is one of the least predictable and conventional of all the young writers working today, but what is certain is a very considerable literary talent in many prose genres, not least that of historical fiction.

PAŠKIEVIČ The youngest of the writers considered here, Aleś Paškievič, has shown considerable promise in both poetry and prose In 2002, having at one time been its youngest member, he became Chairman of the Writers’ Union on the retirement of Volha Ipatava, and since then, with the decline of political freedom in the country and the universal phenomenon of professional jealousy, has suffered more and more undeserved attacks on his professional integrity. All his work is imbued with a strong national consciousness and a didactic sense of the need to resurrect in literary form the many aspects of Belarusian history that have been suppressed over the years.

Born on 11 September 1972 in the village of Nabušava in the Słuck region, Paškievič studied from 1989 at undergraduate and postgraduate level in the Philological Faculty of BDU where, at the time of writing, he teaches Belarusian literature. Beginning his career with a very distinctive book of poetry in 1994, he now devotes the greater part of his creative energies to prose.

I dam tabie vianok žyćcia (And I shall give you a garland of life, 1995-99), a novel-document, as the author terms it, not a documentary novel, concerns the years preceding the celebrated Słuck Uprising of 1920 when national resistance to Bolshevism became centred on the Słuck region. Unlike some writers, Paškievič does not dwell on the genocidal suppression of the revolt,[25] but aims to show the depth and strength of national feeling in the years 1918 to 1920, at the same time drawing parallels with the last three years of the 20th century. Paškievič’s ambitious and enterprising book[26] combines high drama and vivid historical detail with occasional dark humour. It proceeds on different time scales and with a variety of different narrative viewpoints, the principal one being that of Aleś Vajar (described as a native double of his prototype, the émigré poet and writer Aleś Zmahar (1903-??). In the opening pages Aleś Chviedaravič Vajar, an old émigré, returns to Belarus from Florida and his experiences in his native land are interspersed at irregular intervals with the narration of events from 1918-20. The author assures his readers that the documents quoted in this novel-document are authentic, but there are very many passages (printed in italics) ‘From the notes of Aleś Vajar’ whose historical status is, literally, left under a question mark. Frequently Vajar’s dreaming in contemporary Miensk turns directly to events of his youth, merging with the general narrative.

Leaving the documentary and quasi-documentary material aside, the novel presents, in cameos, separate sections, and, as part of the main narrative, a very broad range of figures from Belarusian history and culture, including the poets Janka Kupała and Aleś Harun, poets and prose writers Uładzimier Žyłka and Jadvihin Š, linguist Jazep Losik, editor Adam Babareka, the educationalist and activist Edvard Vajniłovič, who built the Cathedral of SS Symon and Alena, and historian Usievaład Ihnatoŭski, amongst very many others. Since some of these people were unmentionable in Soviet times and others were not officially recognized for their liberational political activities and sympathies, the novel certainly has, whatever else, a considerable educational value, an impression reinforced by the very lively historical digression provided by Aleś Vajar’s recollection of an old chronicle book of the Słuck region which was related to him in his youth by an elder named Viarchoŭski. At the end of the book, however, the distinction between reality and imagination is underlined by two different descriptions of Vajar’s death: in Florida, having established a Belarusian national museum there, or, in reality, in a lonely Warsaw ghetto.

In 2001 this novel-document was reprinted as the first part of a set of two novels under the uniting title of Plac voli (Liberty Square). The second novel, ‘Chto prahnie voli’ (Who thirsts for freedom), is concerned with Belarusian émigrés and exiles in a variety of European countries during the years 1916 to 1946. Again there are many important historical figures, including, apart from those already mentioned in the first book, Maksim Bahdanovič, Uładzimir Duboŭka, Vacłaŭ Łastoŭski, Kastuś Jezavitaŭ, Jurka Listapad, Paŭlina Miadziołka, Raman Skirmunt, Alaksandr Ułasaŭ, Makar Kraŭcoŭ and many others. What unites all these characters is a burning desire for national independence, for which, in most cases, they struggled ceaselessly, although many, of course, met tragic ends. The style of Plac voli is romantically vigorous and enthusiastic in a way that should attract younger as well as mature readers. At about the same time Paškievič, as a university teacher, produced a parallel academic study of the prose of 20th-century Belarusian émigré writers, Zmaharnyja darohi (Paths of struggle, 2001). Both books received a brief condescending notice in Arche; the anonymous reviewer apparently felt a lack of ‘advanced’ scholarly methods (Arche, 6 (20), 8). Unpleasant as the critical approach of this journal may be, such dismissive comments are mere fleabites compared with the machinations set in progress to prevent Paškievič from being awarded his doctorate with the title, ‘The conception of national daily life in the prose of Belarusian overseas writers in the 20th century’. Approved in the Faculty, it failed to receive official confirmation, following a manifestly engineered letter to the President from a collection of World War II veterans, complaining that ‘it had come to their notice’ that Paškievič, Chair of the Writers’ Union, was attempting to defend a dissertation that, amongst other things referred to the Great Patriotic War as World War II, and described as émigrés ‘Fascist collaborators’ (some of the latter, incidentally, having had their books published or publicly recognized in Miensk less than a decade earlier). It may be noted that at least one of the ‘veterans’ had in Soviet times taken part in the hounding of Vasil Bykaŭ and his major novel Miortvym nie balić (The dead feel no pain, 1965).[27]

The very curtailed account of disgraceful political shenanigans above is given not for its own stake, but to underline the hazards, already known to Bykaŭ and Arłoŭ, for example, of writing about the country’s past. Historical writing is anything but a soft option for writers who attempt to portray the past realistically and not as the powers-that-be would like it to be seen. Seemingly unbowed, however, Paškievič has published another quasi-historical novel, a biographical novel about the outstanding poet Uładzimir Duboŭka (1900-1976): ‘Kruh’ (The Circle, 2001, 2003) (Paškievič 2005).

For some countries historical awareness is almost an optional luxury, even something to be avoided, if we recall the British 19th-century novelist George Eliot (pen-name of Mary Ann Cross, 1819-1880) who said, no doubt paraphrasing Montesquieu frivolously, that ‘the happiest women, like the happiest nations, have no history’ (Eliot 1980, 338).[28] Nothing could be further from the truth for a country like Belarus where the past has to be constantly restored and revealed, if the process of national erosion is not to be terminal. Thus, the role of the writers discussed in this article, and they, though arguably the most important, are far from the only ones,[29] who keep alive awareness of their country’s history have, in one sense, a supra-literary significance, for if Belarus does become a virtual province of Russia, then the future of all writers will be mainly their past.

Arnold McMillin, Professor of Russian Literature at the School of Slavonic and East European Studies, University College London, is the author of many articles and several books about Belarusian literature. The two most recent of the latter have been translated into Belarusian: ‘Belarusian Literature of the 1950s and 1960s’ Köln, 1999 [‘Biełaruskaja litaratura ŭ 50-60-ja hady XX stahodździa’, Miensk, 2001], and ‘Belarusian Literature of the Diaspora’, Birmingham, 2002 [‘Biełaruskaja litaratura dyjaspary’, Miensk, 2004]. He is currently writing a monograph on contemporary Belarusian literature.

В этой статье рассматривается ряд литературных изображений белорусской истории, начиная с романтических романов Уладзiмiра Караткeвiча. До недавнего времени белорусская история однобоко освещалась такими учеными, как Л.А., которые с готовностью следовали распространенной традиции русификации, процветавшей в 19-ом и большей части 20-го веков. Самым важным писателем, чье творчество будет рассмотрено в данном обзоре, является Уладзiмeр Арлоў, создавший многие ценные художественные и документальные произведения на исторические темы. Его произведения на современные темы также отражают постоянную озабоченность вопросами национального сознания и идентификации, для чего необходимо глубокое знание и понимание истории.

Другими писателями, создавшими интересные романы, повести, рассказы и стихи на исторические темы от средневековья до Слуцкого восстания и послевоенной эмиграции, являются: Канстанцiн Тарасаў, Лeанiд Дайнeка, Вольга Iпатава, Гeнрых Далiдовiч, Вiтаўт Чаропка, Андрэй Фeдарэнка i Алeсь Пашкeвiч. Творчество последнего и его судьба наглядно иллюстрируют, насколько хрупок процесс осознания национальной истории в атмосфере репрессивного политического режима.

Несомненно, история слишком важна для народа, чтобы оставить ее уделом узкого круга историков-специалистов. Освещая живое прошлое своей страны, произведения упомянутых писателей на исторические темы обретают сверхлитературное значение в духовной жизни страны. Потому что если Белоруссия превратилась бы опять в виртуальную провинцию России, единственным будущим белорусской литературы стало бы ее прошлое.

Abetsedarskii, L. and others, 1965, Istoriia BSSR (two vols) (Miensk: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk Belorusskoi SSR).

Arłoŭ, Uładzimir, 1986. Dobry dzień, maja Šypšyna (Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura).

------, 1988. Dzień, kali ŭpała strała: Apovieści i apaviadańni (Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura).

------, 1990. ‘„Sovershenno sekretno” abo adzin u troch ipastasiach (Natatki niaŭdziačnaha vučnia)’, Ksieraks biełaruski 1: 25-35.

------, 1992a. Jeŭfrasińnia Połackaja: Evrosiniia Polotskaia (Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura).

------, 1992b. Randevu na manieŭrach: Apovieści, apaviadańni (Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura).

------, 1994a. Piać mužčyn u leśničoŭcy: Apovieści. Apaviadańni. Ese (Miensk: Mastackaja litaratura).

Bachańkoŭ, A.Ja., 1979. ‘Uzajemadziejańnie leksiki biełaruskaj movy z leksikaj inšych moŭ u saviecki čas’, Biełaruskaja linhvistka 15: 17-24.

Barmichev, V., 1972. V edinom soiuze. Istoriko-publitsistichekii ocherk o razvitii mnogonatsional’noi sotsialisticheskoi kul’tury SSSR (Miensk: Navuka i technika).

------, 2001. ‘Tvorčaść — nie abaviazak’, Hołas Radzimy, 39 (2753): 4.

Golovnev, A.I. and Mel’nikov, A.P., 1979. Sblizhenie natsional’nykh kul’tur v protsesse kommunisticheskogo stroitel’stva (Miensk: BDU).

Hniłamiodaŭ, Uładzimir and Łaŭšuk, Siarhiej (eds), 2002. Historyja biełaruskaj litaratury XX stahodździa, IV, 1, 1966-1985 (Miensk: Biełaruskaja navuka).

------, 1996. Pamiž Maskvoj i Varšavaj (Niekalki histaryčnych maršrutaŭ Biełarusi) / Zwischen Moskau und Warschau (Einige historische Marshroute durch Belarusland (Miensk: Połymia / Białun).

Kipel, Vitaŭt and Kipel, Zora (eds), 1988. Byelorussian Statehood: Reader and Bibliography (New York: Byelorussian Institute of Arts and Sciences).

Kuźmič, Natalla, 1999. ‘„Nie kładzicie na palički”’, Pieršaśviet 2-3: 54-57.

McMillin, Arnold. 1999. Belarusian Literature in the 1950s and 1960s: Release and Renewal (Cologne, Weimar and Vienna: Böhlau Verlag).

Nienadaviec, Alaksiej, 2000. ‘Dzie adšukaŭsia taler?’, Maładość 3: 312-15.

Pashkevich, Ales’, 2000. ‘I zhizni dam tebe venets’, Neman 8: 7-90 and 9: 28-122.

Paškievič, Aleś, 2005. ‘Kruh: raman-bijahrafija’, Dziejasłoŭ, 11: 20-63 and 12: 36-74.

Rubleŭskaja, Ludmiła, 2000. ‘Dapisacca da milenijumu: Ahlad biełaruskaha litaraturnaha druku za 1999 hod’, Arche-Skaryna 2: 40-50.

Savik, Lidzija, 2003. Adna miž zamkaŭ: Litaraturny partret Volhi Ipatavaj (Miensk: BeleSaES ’Čarnobyl’).

Skobła, Michaś (ed.), 2003. Krasa i siła: Antałohija biełaruskaj paezii XX stahodździa (Miensk: Limaryus).

Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, 1989. Arkhipelag GULag, 1 (Moscow: Sovetskii pisatel’).

Šanski, Arkadź, 2004. ‘Ščaśliviejšy za svaich hierojaŭ’, Naša Niva 4 June: 10.

Šynkarenka, V. K., 2002. Niastomnych pošukaŭ daroha: Prablemy paetyki sučasnaj biełaruskaj histaryčnaj prozy (Miensk: Biełaruskaja navuka).

Tarasaŭ, Kastuś, 1997. Try žyćci kniahini Rahniedy. Pahonia na Hrunvald (Miensk: Vyšejšaja škoła)

------ 2000b. Kryž pamiaci: Karotki spis vojnaŭ, paŭstańńiaŭ, represijaŭ, katastrofaŭ, jakija vypali na los Biełarusi za tysiačahodździe (Miensk: Leksyja).

Zaprudnik, Jan, 1993. Belarus: At a Crossroads in History (Boulder, CO, San Francisco and Oxford: Westview Press).

1 The spelling of Arłoŭ’s first name takes two forms: the Belarusian form Uładzimier that he uses in several publications and in private correspondence, and the form Uładzimir which in akin to the Russian name Vladimir. The pressure to use characteristically Soviet/Russian names is described wittily in an episode of ‘Moj radavod da piataha kalena’ (My family line, for five generations): Arłoŭ 1993, 153-54.

2 For an English language response to this travesty of history see the unsigned review (all the reviews were unsigned at that time) in The Journal of Byelorussian Studies, 1966, I, 123-26.

For Arłoŭ’s ‘ungrateful’ comments and the reaction to them after Abecedarski’s death in 1975, see Arłoŭ 1990.

3 It is a truly remarkable sign of the strength of his writing and the ‘danger’ of history for those who would erode it, that Arłoŭ is passed over in silence in the latest history of 20th-century Belarusian literature (Hniłamiodaŭ and Łaŭšuk 2002).

4 Best known nowadays for its immense oil refinery, Połacak has a rich medieval history and a tradition of freethinking that has lived on to the 20th century, as, for instance, when a group of Novapołack students wrote a collective letter to the newspaper Litaratura i mastactva, describing the always controversial figure of Vasil Bykaŭ as ‘the conscience of the Belarusian nation’: Novapołacak students 1988.

5 There is certainly some affinity between Arłoŭ’s disorientated though thoughtful contemporary characters and those to be found here and there in Stralcoŭ’s prose.

6 The names of both these characters are quintessentially Belarusian, Šypšyna being the name of one of the nation’s most potent symbols, the brier-rose celebrated by Duboŭka, Karatkievič and others.

7 See, for instance, his novel, Śled vaŭkałaka (A trace of the werewolf, 2001): Dajnieka written at about the same time as Arłoŭ’s, 2001. It may be noted incidentally that Dajnieka, unlike Arłoŭ, is discussed thoroughly in Hniłamiodaŭ and Łaŭšuk 2002.

8 One of Karatkievič’s best known novels, Kałasy pad siarpom tvaim (Ears of corn under your sickle, 1965) is about this uprising, as is his play Kastuś Kalinoŭski: Śmierć i nieŭmiručaść (Kastuś Kalinoŭski: Death and immortality, 1963-80). For some information in English about these two works see McMillin 1999, 271-74 and 257-58, respectively.

9 For a review that highlights the difficulties of writing about religion even-handedly see the notice in Arche: Shteinman 2000. This journal, incidentally, is famous, or notorious for its critical reviews.

10 This book first appeared in Russian in 1980.

11 In Stalin’s time soldiers caught in a German encirclement were, of course, automatically regarded as traitors. See Solzhenitsyn 1989, 83.

12 ‘The 13th century alongside the 12th simply / passes silently by the ancient walls. / Let eternity touch me with its rough palm, / The voice of distant ancestors sounds out in the silence, / And for some reason immediately with winged soul /