The Trial Begins

"The trial begins," announced Radio Moscow, "with the interrogation of the accused Daniel. At the beginning of the interrogation, he impudently denies the obvious. But then, when the prosecution presents to the court a number of proofs, fright and confusion appear on his slanderous face. Yes, he is being pressed against the wall. Under the weight of the proof, Daniel is forced to admit facts of his criminal activity.

From time to time, he glances with a confused expression around the court room. The prosecutor and chairman read the proofs of his libel, indignant."

It sounded like some scathing under ground burlesque of Soviet justice circulated these days throughout Russia in tattered manuscript or smuggled out for publication in the West. But it really was Radio Moscow talking. On trial in a dingy yellow brick Moscow court house last week were bearded Critic Andrei Sinyavsky, 40, known as "Abram Tertz" in the West since his macabre manuscripts first appeared in London in 1960, and Translator Yuli Daniel, 40, alias "Nikolai Arzhak," in his underground work an equally outspoken short-story writer. In an 18-page indictment, they were charged under Ar ticle 70 of the Russian criminal code with disseminating "slanderous mate rial besmirching the Soviet state and social system."

Schizoid Progress. The trial drew much attention. Outside the courthouse last week, some 30 of Sinyavsky-Tertz's students from the Institute of World Literature stationed themselves defiant ly, despite deep snow and 6-below-zero temperature. More important, the trial illustrated the curiously schizoid prog ress of Soviet justice. Never before in a Soviet court had two authors been accused of "political crimes" on the basis of their literary output alone, and the inevitable convictions would set a disastrous legal precedent for esthetic freedom in Russia. On the other hand, a trial conducted with press coverage marked some improvement over the usual peremptory Soviet procedures.

It took Sinyavsky and Daniel, however, to provide the real departure. "Do you plead guilty?" asked Prosecutor Oleg P. Temushkin. "Not at all," replied Sinyavsky in defiance of standard Soviet legal response. "Neither in full nor in part," echoed Daniel. That left the prosecution with the rare chore of actually proving its case.

Absurd Exchanges. As Soviet reporters told it (Western newsmen were excluded from the courtroom), Prosecutor Temushkin did it in predictable style: with the aid and assistance of Judge Lev Smirnov plus two "public prosecutors" and a carefully selected audience of 70, mainly fellow authors and critics. Sinyavsky and Daniel argued that they were not guilty because their works were essentially literature, not propaganda. Sniffed Judge Smirnov: "The court is not involved in literary discussions. Answer us-do you recognize that works written by you have a sincerely anti-Soviet character?" But when Sinyavsky began his reply, "Before answering the question, I should like . . . ," he was immediately drowned out by noise and laughter. The ensuing exchanges were equally absurd:

Judge Smirnov: Slander is the circulation of deliberately false, defamatory inventions. This means that what you write is slanderous!

Daniel: No, this is art, literary hyperbole.

Temushkin: Why didn't you publish these stories in Moscow?

Sinyavsky: My artistic tastes differ from the tastes of the publishing houses. . . .

While the taste for Tertz has obviously not yet been acquired in the Kremlin, those in the courtroom got a chance to hear his works read aloud by the prosecutor. One quoted passage, heavily edited, described the failings of the Russian people, who unfortunately, in Sinyavsky's opinion, are drunkards, thieves and "incapable of creating a culture." Asked for an explanation of such a "slanderous" statement, Sinyavsky explained: "I wanted to tell about the spiritual needs of the Soviet people." The courtroom, as usual, "dissolved in laughter."

At week's end, the court recessed.

The judge and two lay assessors will deliver the verdict this week. There was little doubt of what it would be, since Prosecutor Temushkin was already demanding the maximum twelve-year sentence for Sinyavsky and eight years for Daniel.

While the trial was in progress, the Soviets permitted another novelist, Valery Tarsis, to fly to England to fulfill a three-month lecture engagement. The official rationale was that since Tarsis' most recent underground novel, Ward 7, concerns his experience as a political prisoner in an insane asylum, he is a certified lunatic, hence not legally liable for his ravings. At a press conference, Tarsis sounded sane enough though a bit high-strung. He roundly condemned Soviet "police fascism," "bandit fascism," and "the government, which has betrayed the national cause." Then he sounded very much like any other author anywhere. "I am very sad that my books haven't sold well enough in the West," he remarked, adding hopefully, "I hear the Americans specialize in publicity. Perhaps they can do something to sell more of my books."

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