When the writer Nadezhda Alexandrovna Lójvitskaya (Saint Petersburg, 1872 – Paris, 1952), better known by the pseudonym Teffi, took a train from Moscow to the Ukrainian cities of kyiv and Odessa, she could not imagine that she was leaving her home forever. city and life as he had known it until then. The year was 1919, in 1917 the Russian Revolution had broken out and, although at the beginning of the century he had supported the revolts against the tsar, as soon as the Bolshevik regime was established he completely distanced himself from the government led by Lenin, towards which he developed a hatred. deep.
The fall of the Russian Empire had brought certain civil rights that favored it, such as freedom of the press, but the system imposed by the Communist Party was far from resembling the dream that many intellectuals had supported. He left because, like so many of his compatriots, he had no alternative: after the revolution a bloody civil war had broken out between the Red Army and its opponents, which included both supporters of the tsar and liberals of various stripes. Chaos reigned in the street. Teffi had already had to move from his hometown to Moscow in 1918.
Memoirs. From Moscow to the Black Sea (Books of the Asteroid, 2024, trans. Alejandro Ariel González) begins just when a theater entrepreneur nicknamed Guskin proposes a trip to Ukraine to participate in some literary conferences. By then, they were all aware that they had to leave Moscow, the magazines that allowed them to earn a living had closed and the cultural environment of which they had been a part was dissolving in the face of more pressing needs. That proposal almost responded to a call for help, so, despite the mistrust that the subject aroused in him, of whom he only knew that pseudonym – and from whom he ended up disassociating himself –, he joined the expedition.
Chronicler of refugees
It was the beginning of a long journey in which he would get used to living with strangers. She was traveling with artists from a theater company, as bewildered as she was, although over the following weeks some still found time for flirtations and passions. During the journey, that one and those that followed, he also meets people who under normal conditions would not be part of his circle, such as the illiterate peasant women who chatter in the crowded carriage. They do not make friends, the turbulent times, when no one knows where they will be the next day, does not favor the forging of solid relationships; but he listens to them, he observes them.
These chronicles, which were published in installments in Paris between December 1928 and January 1930, collect the memories of the flight from Moscow until his arrival, after stopping at various destinations, in Constantinople, when it was already evident that he could not remain in Russia. They do not contain any partisan allegations, but, as she herself declares at the beginning, they constitute “a simple and truthful narrative about the author’s involuntary journey throughout Russia together with millions of people like her.” In fact, there are no illustrious names or heroic deeds, but rather ordinary people and vulgar experiences among the unusual and vulgar lives of refugees.
And humor, there is also humor in his gaze, that humor (so Russian) of someone who prefers a grotesque laugh to a childish whining. The black humor of an intelligent and biting woman, who knows that from lightness one can very well communicate the experience of uprooting, of loss, of the absurdity of that improvised existence against the clock of someone who gets on a train without knowing when he will return or even Yes, in fact, he will return one day. In the end, telling without fanfare how the small lives of ordinary people change can be the most effective criticism, the most advanced detector that something is not working.
From distinguished writer to ship’s mop
The confusion of Moscow gives way to a series of setbacks, both on the journey and in the cities where it is temporarily staying. Because, as if desperation were not enough, she falls ill, goes from one place to another, survives in dilapidated rooms and lacks someone she trusts at her side to lean on. Everything is transitory, everything (and everyone) is vulnerable. He is moving forward, however, improvising like a refugee improvises; His existence is no longer subject to his will, but to pure survival. She, who had had everything, becomes (almost) one more.
That “almost” is due to a circumstance that is at least curious: Teffi is still Teffi, that is, the nom de plumethe writer, a status that not everyone had access to. She came from a distinguished lineage, her family had instilled in her a love of literature and since the beginning of the century, when she devoted herself to literary creation – previously she had lived for a decade in Belarus, with her husband and three children, to whom which he abandoned to focus on his career and return to Saint Petersburg – had become a popular figure, who wrote plays, serials, stories, poetry and even songs. He collaborated with important newspapers and magazines, and made humor his trademark.
We are informed in the biography that she was admired by such contrasting personalities as Tsar Nicholas II, Lenin, Rasputin and Bulgakov; but in these memoirs he does not boast about it, there is no room for famous names in these chronicles among dirty rooms and desperate individuals. That anonymous public also adores her, they also recognize her, although not everyone (blessed society without screens) gives her a face. She is presented with job opportunities, such as recitation of her verses, and gossip continues about her: “The news of my illness appeared in the newspapers,” she says about her arrival in kyiv. “And since people, to tell the truth, had nothing to do […]my misfortune had a great impact.”
It is the obscene paradox of barbarism: there is death, there is desolation, there is fear; but days still have twenty-four hours that give a lot of value, humans are still humans and fame is still fame. The latter causes him uncomfortable moments, such as when they whisper in case he receives privileges. And yes, there are some, he doesn’t hide it. But she also has mischief: when boarding an unmanned coal ship, where the passengers must lend a hand, she tries to escape first to finally roll up her sleeves and scrub the deck like the other women, only incognito and in her own way: “You scrub, you’re “a horror,” they tell him. “A horror? And I thought he did it like the little sailor from my distant childhood.”
A shared journey
Before arriving in kyiv they stop in several towns; Odessa has to wait. After the tortuous journey, hope: “The first impression [de Kiev]: a party.” They treat her with deference, she works for a newspaper. Until everything fades away: “The last act of the Kiev drama has arrived. “Petliura entered the city,” he remembers. “The stores ran out of supplies […]. People scattered or hid. The city was becoming more and more filled with soldier’s coats.” Flee, again, now through the Black Sea. Sevastopol, Yalta, Novosibirsk; to Constantinople. The siege was tightening; And to think that she had expected to return to Moscow in a few months…!
She’s not alone, at least. In addition to the trouperelates to all types of characters, which he portrays with acuity in just a few lines of dialogue, regardless of whether they are fleeting encounters or whether they are continuous. Intellectuals, politically persecuted people, separated families or lovers who marry in desperation: “There are groups with the most unexpected combinations: an actress from Rostov with a Moscow official; a public figure with a balalaika player; an eminent member of the court with a lively provincial reporter; the son of a rabbi with a governor; a little cabaret actor with two elderly bridesmaids…”. Fatality, like death, equals.
In that fine portrait of the mundane in the midst of confusion lies the merit of this book, in knowing how to capture that strange confluence between the serious and the light, the macro-story of which they know they are protagonists in the face of obstacles, chores and even laughter. from day to day. Narrating the human – and everyday – side of tragedy, that’s what Teffi does, with an irreverent tone that de-dramatizes and that in a way is an antidote to terror. You can take everything from me, he seems to tell them, but I’m not going to give up my essence.
In the end, she ended up in Paris, where, charismatic even in the worst circumstances, she enjoyed notoriety among exiled writers. After his death in 1952, he gradually fell into oblivion, until with the end of the Soviet Union his figure was rediscovered. These chronicles are his contribution to the fight against the oblivion of what so many of his compatriots experienced. About them, and not about policies or battles, write these pages. Stories of simple people who flee, not so different from those who flee today. Teffi’s ship did not sink and he was able to tell it. Collective memory is your legacy.
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