Konstantin Levin, a Soviet poet of the war generation, was born in Ekaterinoslav (today Dnipro, Ukraine) in 1924, in the family of a doctor. He began to write poetry at a young age. However, in keeping with the family tradition, he enrolled in a medical institute in the summer of 1941. After completing his first term, he was transferred to the Anti-tank Artillery School in Rostov-on-Don for an accelerated training course. Upon finishing it, he was deployed to the frontlines of the Soviet-German War, as the commander of a platoon equipped with forty-five-millimeter cannons, which could engage German tanks only at point-blank range, to penetrate their armor. Service in this unit was exceedingly perilous, earning these soldiers the moniker "suicide bombers." Konstantin Levin distinguished himself with exceptional personal courage, which was acknowledged by his regimental commander. In 1944, Levin was awarded two Orders of the Patriotic War, 1st and 2nd class. He was also recommended for the Order of the Red Banner, but this recommendation got lost, and he never received the decoration.
In April 1944, Levin sustained severe wounds in a shell explosion during combat near Iasi, Romania, resulting in the loss of a leg. On April 29, 1944, participating in the battle of Târgu Frumos, in eastern Romania, Levin was hit by an enemy shell and he lost a leg. His former RSA comrade and a participant in the same operation Moisei Dorman noted:
"At the end of April 1944, near Iaşi, a German tank crushed his cannon. A shell fragment cut Kostia's leg right at the knee. The leg was hanging on by the tendons. Levin tried to cut it off with a penknife, but he was bleeding and did not have enough strength.... Almost fainting, he managed to get to his own side by crawling.''
From: An Interview with Moisey Dorman - The Artillerimen/ iremember.ru
He spent approximately a year recuperating in hospitals, and was subsequently discharged as a disabled war veteran. Abandoning his prewar dream of a medical career, he enrolled in the Moscow Literary Institute, which took him on as a student after being favorably impressed with some examples of his poetry. Remarkably, he never used crutches, and wore a cumbersome prosthesis, concealing his disability from others. Levin was a diligent student and a burgeoning poet. He took part in poetry readings, honing his skills and being in no hurry to get published.
However, he was expelled from the Institute in 1949, following a public reading of his poem "We've Grown Unpardonably Aged" (see below), which was deemed "aesthetically decadent." Because of the anti-Semitic campaign that was waged in the last years of Stalin's life, the Komsomol authorities tried to expel him from their organization. However, they failed, because Levin was protected by his status as a war hero and a disabled veteran. At the Komsomol meeting, Levin behaved with exceptional dignity, stating that he felt no guilt whatsoever. At that time, such behavior was a sign of rare courage. The Komsomol leaders agreed to give him a strict reprimand, with the verdict: “worthy of expulsion.” A year later, following the intercession of some well-known poets who admired his work, he was allowed to complete his education via distance learning.
During his five years of study, and for another twelve years afterward, Konstantin Levin led a modest life in Moscow, unable to afford an apartment, and being forced to rent a bed in a shared room. His only sources of income were his disability pension and a meager scholarship. After graduation, he made ends meet with occasional literary publications, including internal reviews. When asked why he did not wear his military decorations, he replied, "It's shameful. They are not enough."
As his friends would recall, after the incident with the expulsion from the Institute, “something broke in him.” Levin returned to writing poetry only in the 1960s, but he shunned public appearances and publications. During this time, he wrote solely for his own pleasure. Only in 1981, having been diagnosed with a terminal illness, did he agree, at the urging of friends, to record his late poems on a tape recorder. Most of these recordings were included in his sole posthumous collection, Recognition (1988).
In his final years, Konstantin Levin worked as a literary consultant for various magazines, but made no effort to get his own work published. He passed away on November 19, 1984, and was buried in Moscow. His tombstone is inscribed with famous lines from his poem "We Were Buried by Artillery."
Related sources
Poems of Konstantin Levin
<…> What day was it? A Wednesday, I believe.
It was not Sunday, trust me, nor a Sabbath.
My shining star was gone, concealed by clouds,
And all my freedom was to no avail.
And, feeling pulled along by unseen strings,
My mindset neither hesitant nor daring,
With vague intent, and with an empty soul,
I walked into the Choral Synagogue.
I settled down upon the oaken pew,
Receptive to both worlds in equal measure.
I understood then: I'm not Russified,
I'm still a Jew, and have been one since birth.
I've always liked the fact that I'm a Jew.
It never bothered me – but, rather, helped me
Amid the blasts of German shells and bombs,
And in the stuffy hall that greeted me.
…Outside the window, winter reigned supreme,
And evil lorded it over the good.
My soul was vexed and troubled, like a girl
In her best outfit, standing by a coffin.
Meanwhile, the men, with many coughs and whispers,
Conferred with Yahweh in their low-pitched voices.
I felt a love for all these aged fellows,
For their long ears, hooked noses, shifty eyes —
For their great skill at sewing and watchmaking, —
For their yarmulkes and patched prayer shawls.
Out of these snapshots, these deep mines and holes,
Stamped with the watermarks of Jewishness,
The Einsteins, Chaplins, and the Pasternaks
Emerge into the world that beckons onward.
And yet, the heart is moved by the same tunes;
And grumpy Russian grandpas from Smolensk —
And old Estonians, and wizened Chechens —
Are just as prone to quarrel and peacemaking.
I feel a love for all these aged fellows,
For these sad men, their silence, and their wit.
* * *
We've grown unpardonably aged.
Each day, we're closer to the ashes…
What can I say? It was my lot
To be a Jew in such an epoch.
I won no glory in my lifetime;
The plaudits came when I was buried.
I fought to leave the past behind,
Having no fondness for those days. <…>
I was no better, and no braver,
Than my five living servicemen —
The remnants of our battery,
Which had been bombed for five hours straight.
I was no better, nor more decent, —
And yet, to silence all the slander,
I crawled under this tank, a Jew,
My flaming liquid at the ready.
And if those five surviving soldiers
Are ever destined to come home,
They'll gather all their friends around
And raise a toast to victory;
The dance will end, the song fall silent,
And they will slowly tell their story…
And it will be a soldier's tale,
With some embellishments and frills.
1947
