Untold Will / Невысказанное завещание (на английском языке)

Project manager, translation, footnotes, and comments by Gulshat Safiullina

© Tatarstan Book Publishing Company, 2019

© Eniki, A. N., Estate and Family of, 2019

© Safiullina G. R., compilation, translation, 2019

Dr. Gulfiya Gaynullina was born in the village of Izh Bubi, famous for its madrasah that was founded by Badrulbanat and Gabdelgalyam Nigmatullins, and directed by brothers Izh Bubi – Gubaydullah and Gabdullah, whose sister Mukhlisa Bubi was the first and the only female Sharia judge.

In 1991 Golfiya Gaynullina entered the Tatar Philology and History Department of Kazan State University, where later she wrote her PhD thesis on the Tatar Literature of the second half of the 20^th century. Her articles focus on the books of Amirkhan Eniki, Ayaz Gylazhev, Mohammat Makhdiev.

Since 1998 she has lectured on Tatar literature at Kazan Federal University.

The Writer who Changed Tatar Imagination

The power of a personality is the possibility to change the melancholic existence and flow of life with one`s thoughts and position. The Tatar lifestyle and Tatar mentality were formed under the influence of Gabdulla Tukay, Dardemend (Zakir Ramiev) and Amirkhan Eniki.

Amirkhan Eniki was born on March, 2 in 1909. His father bought a Qur`an before Amirkhan was born and made a wish that eventually came true: «Let my child who will soon to be born live long and become an educated person». Later the writer himself would say: «…It is not difficult to become an educated man, a scholar, even a writer, but it is very difficult to be a real person. If your talent and will allow you to write, don`t think about fame, think about your reader. Write about what you know and believe, and the reader will believe you».

Amirkhan Eniki was a representative of the Tatar intelligentsia, the educated and the enlightened individuals, as all his life he was devoted to such people: «I saw educated scholars of the past, for instance, Zhamal Validi, Gali Rakhim, Fatikh Amirkhan. Sagyit and Sharif Suncheyler were very close to me. They were very well educated, with exquisite manners and good speech. […] An educated person should possess not only a pleasing appearance, but also a beautiful soul».

If it hadn`t been for the creative works of Amirkhan Eniki, Tatar literature would be quite different now. The changes in Tatar literature that are happening now were launched by the prosaic works of Amirkhan Eniki during a time of war. «Last Book» (Соңгы китап) is an autobiographical work in which the author tells about his way in the world of literature, how he became a writer. He describes his attitude toward writing with the following words: «Writing is honourable work».

In the short stories written during the Great Patriotic War of 1941–1945 Eniki brought back many devices of Tatar literature that were particular to it in the beginning of the 20^th century. «Child» (Бала), «Mother and Daughter» (Ана һәм кыз), and «For One Hour Only» (Бер генә сәгатькә) became the favourite books of Tatar readers. In the naser style prose «Poppy Flower» (Мәк чәчәге) that was written in 1944, the author inspired Tatar literature with a new wave. In the 1950–1960s, when, according to the author ‘it was easier to breathe’, the novels «Swamp Flower» (Саз чәчәге), and «Haze» (Рәшә) were published, the latter was translated into Russian, and with its main character Zofer Sabitov it was a groundbreaking work for national literatures.

In the 1960s Amirkhan Eniki managed to retrieve and implement national traits for Tatar prose. In such a complicated epoch he raised the problems of life of a nation, the loss of native language, the loss of respect for roots and native land, the loss of old customs and traditions, and the change of moral values – all these peripeteia are discussed in his works «Untold Will» (Әйтелмәгән васыять), «Native Land» (Туган туфрак), and «Memories of Gulyandam Tutash» (Гөләндәм туташ хатирәсе) – indeed, through these books the bell tolls.

«Memories of Gulyandam Tutash» (Гөләндәм туташ хатирәсе) immortalizes the first professional Tatar composer, the founder of the new genre of Tatar musical drama Salikh Saydashev. The novel sounds like a Tatar song from beginning to end.

Amirkhan Eniki wrote articles and reviews on works of Gabdulla Tukay, Galimjan Ibrahimov, Khadi Taktash, Naki Isanbat, Khasan Tufan, Akhmet Fayzi, Karim Tinchurin. In his published articles Eniki writes: «In the Tatar region first was the Enlightenment, and later the Jadidism movement appeared. Our literature and theatre were born. New publishing presses start printing books in Tatar, Tatar newspapers appear one after another. Shihabutdin Marjani, Kayum Nasyri, Galimjan Barudi, and Zhamal Validi are engaged in this significant activity. Progressive activity of Ibrahim Teregulov, Yosuf Akchura, Sadri and Hadi Maksudi also begins here. And our beloved poets Ishaki, Tukay, Amirkhan, and Zhamal are also part of this luminescent and restless region».

The creative works of Amirkhan Eniki create belief, love, and feeling. They make the reader fall in love with Tatar literature. Once a reader becomes acquainted with the works by Amirkhan Eniki it is impossible to stop reading them. The words of the sage, thoughts and observations amaze, influence, and cleanse the soul. This volume of Amirkhan Eniki stories and novels is one of favourite books of the first President of the Republic of Tatarstan, State Counsellor of the Republic of Tatarstan Mintimer Sharipovich Shaymiev. The publication of this book was supported by his initiative. We continue to be indebted with all our respect and gratitude to Mintimer Sharipovich Shaymiev and the assistant of the State Council Advisor of the Republic of Tatarstan – Nursoya Nurullovna Shaydullina for the opportunity to publish the selected works of Amirkhan Eniki in Russian and English languages for future generations.

The publication of this edition is not only to show respect to a great writer, but to present a Tatar philosophy of life to a wide range of readers. The sorrows, thoughts and ideas that were created by the pen of the master could make the reader think, muse and appreciate life in its beauty again.

Dr. Gulfiya Gaynullina

Dr. Edward Ed. Lazzerini earned the doctorate from the University of Washington in Imperial Russian history, with a focus on Turco-Islamic populations. His most recent academic position was with Indiana University, from which he retired in 2018 having served with the Department of Central Eurasian Studies and directing both the Sinor Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies and the Inner Asian and Uralic National Resource Center. Much of his research continues to focus on the relationship фbetween belief and knowledge in Eurasian commentary traditions – principally within the framework of the Russian Empire – and the impact of modernity on those traditions. Of particular interest is the fate of Islam as adhered to by Turkic peoples in the Volga-Kama, Black Sea, and Caucasus regions between the mid-eighteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The beauty of motherly ways: a preface

Amirkhan Nigmetzianovich Eniki (1909–2000) was a man of many literary talents, the sort of person who grows up in a small village from the midst of his indigenous popular culture, in this case Tatar and Islamic. Cultures around the world cherish such individuals for their ability to express poetic and narrative imaginings in the colloquial language close to the people, to write with gentle humor but not sarcasm, and expose the traits common to daily life. Tatar writers with this ability and calling were inspired by the modern poet Gabdulla Tukay (1886–1913), who led the way in the early twentieth century to forge a legacy that spoke to Tatars through their ethno-religious identity, thereby assisting in laying the foundation of Tatar nationalism.

The early years of Eniki’s life passed through a tumultuous era unfolding under the impact of the First World War, two revolutions in 1917, a Civil War, and all of the great and small events that accompanied the transition from the Russian Empire to the USSR through 1923. For several decades thereafter, he was unable to totally focus on literature, but held various jobs, continued his education, taught, and served in the Red Army during World War II, not to be decommissioned until 1950. The war and its consequences had an enormous, negative impact on him that he tried to ease by developing a writing career in the post-Stalin 1950s. In 1953, the year in which Stalin died, Eniki became, finally, a professional writer.

Of immense importance to the development of Eniki’s intellectual and social worldview was the impact of modern influences from Europe and Russia on the latter’s Muslim communities beginning in the second half of the nineteenth century. These gave rise among Turkic intellectuals to a movement called jadidism which grew to envision a world different from any known before. It would be a new world underpinned and shaped by new methods (usûl-i jadid) that initially focused on language pedagogy and schooling for Muslim children but quickly expanded to include economic theory and development, gender relations, social organization, and cultural production, along with the many institutional paraphernalia that ultimately make up a society, its operative principles, behaviors and sensibilities, and its defining discourse. In sum, jadidism for Russia’s Tatar Muslims was modernity.

The short story that this Preface introduces is entitled «Beauty» (Матурлык, 1964), and is ostensibly composed by «an educated old man» who recalls it easily from his youth despite the ordinary setting, characters, and content. It is not a romance from the author’s life, yet is deeply biographical in spirit; it is not a tale of riotous joy, but one inspired nevertheless by a deep recognition of what beauty can truly mean. It has nothing to do with a bewitching woman, but with one who is quite elderly, disfigured, but simply beautiful in the most important motherly ways.

We only learn about this woman and her special beauty toward the end of the story, after three young male friends, one of whom is her son Badretdin, arrive at the latter’s home from the district medrese where they studied. Badretdin is described as a wonderful, thoughtful, and caring young man, «strange, mysterious, and nice,» whose extreme poverty, described in exquisite detail, worries him not for its immediate personal consequences but for the burdens it places upon his family. The narrator, however, is nothing but astonished that his friend is not embarrassed by his life’s circumstances, and even more so by the unattractiveness of his mother, who tries to hide her disfigured face when Badretdin insists that she join him and his friends for tea.

The absence of external beauty, however, proves meaningless in face of the deep reservoir of internal beauty that overflows from mother to son. Recognition of this truth leaves the narrator shaken and changed forever, and offers a lesson to all in keeping with the English idiom to never judge a book by its cover!

While these features of the story are central to its development and meaning, so too is the impact of jadidism in the lives of the three boys who are shakerts studying in a regional medrese. They are described by the author as caught up in a movement focused on such intellectual and literary figures as Ramiev and Tukay. The new writing, not just belles-lettres but expanding non-fiction, had thoroughly enlivened these and many other students in schools that traditionally trained members of the Islamic clerisy in purely religious subjects but which were now undergoing significant reforms affecting the character of the curricula so as to include a broad range of secular subjects. As the author writes, literature had «turned into something like bread» or put another way, was a «disease» consuming the human spirit. In our three heroes we can see hints of the growing tension between traditional and modern society, but for the moment, whether listening to larks filling the sky with sound, or to the message of the cuckoo bird to remember something «very important,» or to the poetics of Badretdin attempting to share life’s philosophy, those tensions were still far in the background.

Dr. Edward Ed. Lazzerini

Beauty
(Tale from an educated old man)

PART ONE

This story happened long, long ago, but is still before my eyes: my friends and I, three shakirds^[1], we were returning to our villages from our district madrasah^[2]. To tell the truth, Gylemdar and I, were going to one village – Chuarkul —, and Badretdin was heading to Ishle village, where we planned to leave him and continue on our way. I must add that the mare that lazily and slowly was bringing us back home belonged to Gylemdar. Because we were neighbors from the same village, one spring my family sent the horse to take us home; the next summer, the horse belonging to the family of Gylemdar was sent.

Badretdin was our occasional fellow traveler. To be sure, we gathered at the madrasah at the same time and left it at the same time, but we hadn`t had a chance to return home together before. Badretdin didn`t like to be a burden to other people. When school was over, he would go to the market and join others from his village, or would return to his village on foot, about 30 versts^[3], plodding along. This time we invited him ourselves, insisting on heading home together.

Badretdin was the poorest shakird in our madrasah. No assistance came to him from his home. Very rarely someone from Ishle village brought him millet bread wrapped in a hemp rag or one lump of butter. Badretdin was always embarrassed: «Why did they send it? Tell my Mom that I am not hungry, and that they shouldn`t reduce their share of food». For some reason he did eat that butter, cracking it with awl, and shakirds asked him: «Why do crack it like this?», Badretdin would laugh and answer: «When you eat it with an awl, it lasts longer».

As the proverb says, «A sparrow doesn`t die from hunger in his homeland»<sup>[4]</sup>. And so it was that our Badretdin, even if he was suffering or had a lack of money, continued to study, and he studied very well. It is a well-known fact that a poor shakird in merciless poverty turns out to be very gifted. It is not possible to survive in any other way. A rich shakird, let`s say, even though muddle-headed, could stay in the madrasah as long as he wished, but a poor student, if he studied poorly, would be compelled to leave madrasah after the first winter… Moreover, if a poor student was studying very well, he could slightly improve his financial state.

And our Badretdin, as he was industrious and diligent, from time to time he received some help from rich benefactors; he earned a little as well by, giving help to weak students to prepare their home assignments; sometimes he helped teachers and copied prayers for sick people and Ayat al-Kursi verse^[5] from the Qur’an, and received some coppers for it. In brief, he was never without work. At the same time he never asked for work or for help. «I am poor and it is your duty to help me» – we never saw such impudent misery on his face.

By nature he was a steady and patient young man. He didn’t fawn over others, didn’t brag, answered good with good, and bad with nothing; – somehow he managed to stay away from bad. What is interesting is that, – no matter how down-and-out he was, he never asked anything from anyone. Usually, shakirds asked this or that from him, as many things were necessary for life in the madrasah – a needle, thread, a thimble, an awl, a knife, tweezers, a mirror, various pens, paper and notebooks, even glue and wax, which he kept in a large belted and hinged chest which he made on his own. How did he manage to collect all these objects? As always, he decided that his poverty shouldn`t be a burden to anyone, and he did his best, even at the cost of food. It is true; he needed thick notebooks for classes. And the notebooks he had he wrapped very neatly, making a handle of foil not to smear the pages and treasured his notebooks carefully.

At that time, in other words years before the revolutions^[6], shakirds were enthralled with new literature that was appearing. Literature had turned into something like bread for us!.. – Every shakird was writing songs, poems, even abstracts from novels into his thick notebook. Every other shakird was writing poems. Many of them were captivated with Sagyt Ramiev^[7]. They followed him, they tried to look like him, and they learned his poems by heart… Even more than Ramiev, for all of us the most perfect, the most impressive, the most copied, the most beloved and read was Tukay^[8].

The ‘poetic’ disease touched our Badretdin as well. He too was writing poems, but never read what he wrote to anyone. It was difficult to persuade him to read. But if he was reading it, his poems were not written as were poems of other shakirds, in a complaining tone, but were short poems that described the natural phenomena or expressed his attempt to share life philosophy.

So strange, mysterious and nice a young gentleman was our group mate Badretdin!

Well, to cut a long story short, we were coming back to our villages, three of us in a comfortable carriage. The road was smooth with no dust. The gray gelding was producing «gort-gort» sounds because of the steep descent, and was leisurely jogging its way… Not long ago, in the middle of May, the first warm rains came. Now everything was growing quickly, rising up: rye spires and wheat were thick, dark-green, like moustaches of young men, and started to stretch; unplowed grass was breaking through last year dry grass, flowers were in bloom here and there… Along the way bindweeds first pink «bells» were seen… No need to stress that it was the purest, the simplest, the nicest time!

For us, who were getting withered along all winter, this boundless, vast, light, warm world was adorable and desired, we couldn`t get enough of it, were breathing it, smelling it, looking at it. We stopped the carriage for a while and walked in the grass to feel the warmth of the ground with our feet, ran and got caught up in the grass, gathered flowers. Badretdin found wild green onion, we chewed it. I found and picked up one plant that is called «temlekay»^[9] in our village. It is long with four-sided stem. We peeled and ate it. Badretdin told us that this plant is called «stableman lash» by Bashkirs, as when the buds on its end turn into blue flowers, it resembles a lash with a brush.

And our Gylemdar, was looking for gophers, stopped, whistled, covering his face with two hands; but a cunning animal probably understood that it was a whistle by a shakirds, with the result that it didn`t come out of his burrow, and didn`t sit on his hind paws with his ears up.

… Singing larks accompanied us along the way as if from that infinite radiant clear sky one bewitching melody was unceasingly trembling and dinging. Do you know what is the magic of lark`s singing?.. First of all, you might have noticed that when a lark sings, a serene meditative silence spreads over the ground. It is as if the whole of nature, every living being, like educated people say, are listening only to him in awe, keep silent, and indulge in glad, enjoyable bliss… The second magic is that when a lark is singing, the world somehow expands, becomes wider and brighter. Like from the high sky, where a tiny bird is singing, the earth seems boundless, enormous, amazingly calm, luminous…

I don`t know if other birds are singing along with lark – I didn`t pay attention, but one bird`s singing reaches our ears, making us shudder, as if all the larks of the world started to sing together. A cuckoo bird! A strange bird, never showing up to people, that was created by nature to make people remember something very important… Passing by a bluish forest we heard its warning song that made us sink into reveries.

In such elated mood, we were joyfully on our way home and finally approached the Ishle village that was in the valley opposite red-sloped mountains. When we set off, Badretdin invited us to have some tea in Ishle before we continued our journey. As it is very natural for shakirds to have fun together, we agreed to visit our groupmate.

When we reached the village, Badretdin took the reins and turned the horse from the main road to the right, thereby riding along the road covered with green grass headed to the farthest street. Before long, he stopped the horse in front of the house that was standing in the distance, separate from other houses.

We had known that we were coming to the house of poor people, but we hadn’t expected such a miserable household. Actually, it was difficult to call it a household. In a bare meadow a small, old, shabby house was fallen half down in the ground. Its straw roof was rotted, blackened, and started to turn into manure. Owing to this weight some of the logs of the house were sticking out, the door and windows were lopsided, and the windows had become green-bluish with time… There was no gate, no fence, and only two poles separating the household from the street and the field… The yard was covered with field grass in which buzzing grasshoppers were jumping. It was a sign that there were no cattle in the household.

We tried not to show our bewilderment to Badretdin. We entered the open yard that showed no wheel tracks and stopped the horse near to an old barn that was covered with twigs. One runty, white-faced, red-bearded, thin man came out of the house. He was dressed in a hemp shirt, pants of woven cloth with large patches on his knees, and a miserable hat on his head. Resting in worn-out boots, his legs were wrapped in cloth. He came close to the carriage and greeted only Badretdin, saying: «My son!», – He lent two hands to us without saying anything, then immediately went to the horse to unbridle it…

Badretdin picked up his chest and hurried inside. A woman appeared at the door, but very quickly went back in. It must have been Badretdin`s mother, I was embarrassed by her hesitation and hiding back in the house.

When the horse was unharnessed, Badretdin came out of the house with a bucket of water, a ladle and a towel. Over the grass we poured water on each other`s hands to refresh ourselves. A thought came to my mind: «They do not even have a kumgan.»<sup>[10]</sup>. – We didn`t have any power to pretend that we don`t see anything and do not know anything; nor did we have words to enter into idle talk. But Badretdin himself was very calm; at least we didn`t notice any embarrassment or discomfort.

When we washed ourselves, we greeted the owners, and entered the house. Badretdin`s father met us with the words: «Come in, shakirds!»

The dim house inside turned to be as old and shabby as its exterior. But no matter how old and shabby it was, the timber of the house was absolutely yellow-brown, like wax, – trampled and pitted floor was very clean… A solid bunk sake^[11], covered with felt occupied all the main part of the house, along with two chairs, one bench, one more chump near the furnace – that was all the furniture. The front of the furnace was separated from the room by an old curtain; somebody was splintering the chips behind it.

When we entered the house, the first person we saw was an old man, sitting on the sake and leaning against the wall. Like Hazyr Ilyas^[12] he had a snow-white beard and was dressed in a snow-white robe and pants. The tubetey^[13] on his head, however, looked like a pancake and was bluish black.

We stretched two hands to greet the old man. The old man didn`t move. Badretdin said quickly: «– Grandpa, shakirdler want to greet you.»

– «Ah, do they, Baraka Allah!^[14] – the old man said. He livened a little, and stretched his weathered big, firm hand. His eyes were open, but he was blind.

We sat and read prayers, and, as shakirds do, put our hands on our knees and sat still for a moment. It was difficult for us to start the conversation, and for some reason our tongues couldn`t start speaking easily. Strangely, the owners didn’t start were silent as well. Apparently, not many words were said in that house – somehow we understood it very quickly. The old man returned to his inner world, was sitting still and didn’t` move. Badretdin was pacing around the house, as if he intended to say something, but couldn`t find words…

His father, first was sitting near the furnace was astonished by us, then rose and started to prepare the tea near the bunks. He found and spread a homespun tablecloth, grabbed three cups, either glued, or with a broken handle from the furnace ledge, a short knife, some bread wrapped in a cloth, and milk in the wooden ladle. The he sat again on the chump near the furnace. Badretdin took out three handfuls of sugar lumps and put it in the middle of the table-cloth.

A short time later from behind the curtain we heard: «It is ready, my son!». Badretdin entered behind the curtain and brought out a samovar.^[15] Its nose and handle were also patched with tin.

Badretdin told us to get on the bunks and sit there. We sat up, on our bent legs. Then a pan on a tripod was put in front of us with scrambled eggs. We didn’t start eating as we were waiting for the owners. But the grandfather didn`t move from his place, and the father didn’t rise from his chump. In this moment Badretdin said softly, into the curtain:

– «Mummy, come yourself and make us tea, please.»

– «And your daddy?» – answered his mother slowly from behind the curtain.

– «Daddy? – No, make it yourself, please,» Badretdin said, as if begging for it with clear sincerity.

Everything went still behind the curtain. Then a woman appeared in a hemp dress and apron, in socks and shoes, bending her head and covering her face with the end of her shawl, and sat behind the samovar.

When I raised my head to look at her, my heart sank. To tell the truth, I speak frankly when I say that, a feeling of disgust froze me: the face and eyes of the poor woman were ugly because of the merciless smallpox that she must have suffered. Looking at her, it was hard to find words, and my tongue refused to budge. Yet, I have to describe in full what I saw: her left hand was shriveled, but her right eye grew large, and through this eye without eyelashes and eyebrows, through the veil of age, all her inner soul was reflected. One can say that this eye that never closed and was full of sadness, was the mirror of her soul!