Far be it from me to suggest that the Supreme Being is anything other than totally infallible. All I’d say is that if I were the omnipotent master of the universe, there one or two things I would have done a little differently:
1) Chocolate – was it really necessary to laden it with quite so many calories? I mean come on, God is supposed to love us.
2) Cauliflower – mushy, bland but with a weirdly repugnant aftertaste; definitely one vegetable too many.
3) World peace, universal harmony etc etc – so far not nearly enough progress.
4) February – need I say more? Seriously, what purpose does it serve other than to drag winter out for a further four interminable grey, wet, miserable weeks? I really don’t see why we can’t we just hop straight from a crisp and frosty 31st January to daffodils and baby lambs on the 1st March. And if February wasn’t bad enough, God had to go and put St Valentine’s Day right in the middle of it, just so you can experience that extra wallop of rejection and heartache that accompanies an empty mailbox on 14th of the month.
Still, one mustn’t grumble. Actually on second thoughts, one definitely should grumble; grumbling is what makes so many of life’s grievances just that little bit more tolerable. Or so I find.
I’m consoling myself by re-reading Isaac Babel’s Red Cavalry stories, which I first encountered when I was at university. I have to say, three years spent obtaining a degree in Russian is worth it for Babel alone. He’s a wonderfully elastic and eccentric writer and a fantastic observer of human nature which he records with great generosity, humanity and compassion. The Red Cavalry Stories were written in the early 1920s, and cover the period Babel spent as a journalist with General Budyonny’s forces, which were fighting in Poland at the time as part of the civil war unleashed by the Russian revolution.
Short, dumpy, bespectacled and Jewish, Babel was not by any stretch of the imagination a natural soldier. But whatever he may have lacked in athleticism, he more than made up for in his writing. His stories present a delightful rogues’ gallery, peopled by worldly priests and rabbis, romantic soldiers and shopkeepers, village artists, inn-keepers, prostitutes and dreamers. What comes across most strongly, however, is the uneasy mix of appalled admiration and inadequacy Babel experienced as a result of living in close proximity with Budyonny’s Red Cossack warriors. These are often described as big, strapping, handsome lads whose muscles strain the fabric of their clothing and who strut around in metal-capped boots in thrall to their own strength and capacity for extreme violence. Babel was attracted and horrified by them in equal measure.
A writer as clear-sighted and compassionate as Babel was bound sooner or later to find himself in conflict with the ever more authoritarian and paranoid Soviet regime. He was arrested in May 1939 and held at the Lubyanka Prison in Moscow for six months before being tortured into making a false confession of espionage. On 27th January 1940, despite attempts to recant, Babel was shot. Those of his unpublished manuscripts the NKVD managed to get their hands on were burned and lost forever, along with the works that Babel never lived to create. Babel wasn’t by any means the only writer who fell victim to Stalin’s purges, but there’s something particularly sad about the silencing of such a warm and wise voice. Where oh where was the angel sitting on your shoulder?