2013, 345 p.
I have been the first person in my immediate family to go to university, although several of my cousins did as well. I find it hard to imagine what it would be like to grow up as the child of academics and intellectuals. Part of my fascination with this book was reading about the child of historians becoming a historian herself. Sheila Fitzpatrick’s father was the left-wing historian and public intellectual Brian Fitzpatrick and her mother Dorothy Fitzpatrick taught history at Monash University.
This book is the second memoir written by Sheila Fitzpatrick, noted Soviet Historian, and now Honorary Professor at the University of Sydney after a long academic career overseas. Her first memoir was called My Father’s Daughter which, from the title, I assume explores the generational issue further.
In this second memoir we are taken on the first steps of the author’s academic journey as she travels first to Oxford University to undertake her doctorate in Russian history. Her dissertation topic was Anatoly Vasilyevich Lunarcharsky, the Russian author and politician who was appointed Commissar of Enlightenment between 1917 and 1929. Her thesis was titled ‘Lunarcharsky as Philosopher and Administrator of the Arts’ and it ended up being published by Cambridge University Press as The Commissar of Enlightenment in 1970. It was the stepping stone to Fitzpatrick’s eminent career as a historian of Russia.
It was not surprising that a daughter of Brian Fitzpatrick would be attracted to such a topic, but she claims that “Becoming a Soviet historian wasn’t a foregone conclusion, even with a left-wing father and a bit of Russian” and that from the age of about 13 she had become “less of a true believer in my father’s causes than earlier” (p.7). Fitzpatrick’s father had died by the time she embarked on her academic career, and yet one senses that she continued to have an intellectual argument with him in her head at least. The book is not so much a ‘ coming-of-age ‘story , as a story of ‘coming-as-historian’ as she finds her own mentors and develops her own confident intellectual stance as a historian.
In the 1960s it was common for first class honours students in history to undertake their doctorates overseas, and so she trod a well-worn path. She was not terribly impressed with St Anthony’s College at Oxford and the supervision she received there. In 1966 she applied for a British Council exchange scholarship to enable her to live in Moscow and to use the archives there for her research. Her application was refused initially but eventually received after she embarked on a rather utilitarian marriage to a fellow British student. As part of the preparation for her stay in Moscow, she and her cohort of fellow researchers were warned against spies- indeed, against friendships with Russian people, full stop. Like her fellow students she ignored this advice, and this book describes her friendship with Igor, a middle-age friend of the now-dead Lunarcharsky, and Irini, Lunarcharsky’s daughter, that developed as she delved deeper into her research.
This book emerged from a long article that she wrote in the London Review of Books, and you can get the flavour and much of the content from reading this article alone (which is often the case with LRB articles). In fact, it’s such a detailed article that you barely need to read the book! I must admit that, with little knowledge of post-revolutionary and Cold War Russia (or at least, I’ve forgotten what I ever did know), I found the content aspects of this article easier to follow than the book. But it’s well worth going to the book itself because her research is only one facet of her story: it’s also about friendships, authenticity, insecurity in a clandestine world, and history-writing.
She writes of the joy that all historians feel when working in archives, but to her, working in the Soviet archives was particularly pleasurable- in fact, she pitied those British historians who would roll up to the PRO, ask for a file, and have it handed over instantly. In Moscow, not only was there the challenge of even getting access to the archive, but once admitted, there were strict limits on what was made available because the thesis topic is treated like a straitjacket. There’s no chasing off down rabbit holes and false leads and serendipitous rainbows here: if a file was not directly related to the topic as you first conceptualized it, then you couldn’t see it. Foreign researchers were not given access to catalogues, so there was no way of knowing what to ask for. Contact between foreign researchers and their Russian counterparts was strictly forbidden, and the archivists held enormous power over what you could see and what you could not. It all became a bit of cat-and-mouse, albeit playing with a cat with sharp eyes and sharp claws that you could not always assume would remain sheathed.
However, one aspect in the book that does not come through in her article is the process of the historian writing a memoir. She mentions at one stage that one of her husbands had returned the letters she had written to him, in order for her to write this memoir. She uses the correspondence between her mother and herself as well, triangulating it against the diary that she wrote at the time. She often says that she cannot remember certain events that are documented, and is often nonplussed to explain things that she had written at the time. As a result, it is a careful memoir that has a sense of distance between the writer and what she remembers (or does not remember) about the events she experienced.
And was she a spy? In the end the Soviets thought so and clumsily ‘outed’ her, and she herself is not completely sure. She certainly was not an MI6-type spy but, as she admits, it would have been plausible for her to have turned out to be one after all:
Was I, in some sense, a spy? If the Soviets couldn’t make up their minds, it’s not surprising that I had trouble. I can certainly recognize some spy-like characteristics in myself, starting with my intention to find out everything about Soviet history, including the things that the Soviets wanted to keep hidden. If a spy is a chameleon who can speak two languages and doesn’t know what his ultimate allegiance is, that partly fits. (p. 342)
I enjoyed this book, and the undercurrent of Cold War tension that runs underneath it. I liked the reflexivity of her writing and the caution with which she treats the memoir genre. I wish that I knew more about Russia, because I did find the details of her research rather overwhelming at times but not so much that I was ever tempted to give up. I resisted the temptation to Google, trusting her to take me on the journey, and she did not let me down.
I’m posting this to the Australian Women Writer’s Challenge under the History/Memoir/Biography section- and, for this book at least, it fits all three categories!
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