Ночной дозор

by Alexander Galich

As I’ve mentioned some time years 10 years ago, in 1977 I expanded my cultural horizons a lot. To a large degree, the said expansion was thanks to my cousin who, in early summer of that year, entrusted us — that is, my brother and me — with a leather briefcase full of magnetic tape reels. For safekeeping. He specifically asked us to refrain from listening a couple of reels which were stored in unmarked boxes. (They are for a very small circle of listeners, he explained.) So we spent a happy summer discovering new for us music, mostly prog-rock, of which later. Of course, it was only a matter of (rather short) time before the temptation won. We were careful enough to make sure our mum wasn’t anywhere near when we explored the forbidden tapes.

That’s how we got acquainted with the works of Galich. Even though back then I didn’t know much about the things Galich was talking about, his songs sounded true. Аве Мария, На сопках Манчжурии, Вальс, посвященный уставу караульной службы, Караганда... And this one: Ночной дозор. Painfully true. Goosebumpingly true. Dangerously true. (About a very small circle of listeners, we got it. And kept quiet about it.) Wait. They still give me goosebumps.

I couldn’t find when exactly Ночной дозор was written but a number of web sites point on the year 1963, or “between 1962 and 1964”. In any case, Ночной дозор sounds even more true now than 60 years ago. At least that’s what I thought when I read about unveiling a bronze bust of Stalin in Volgograd earlier this month.

The English translation by Gerald Stanton Smith thanks to this website.

Александр Галич Ночной дозор

Alexander Galich, translated by Gerald Stanton Smith The Night Watch

Когда в городе гаснут праздники, Когда грешники спят и праведники, Государственные запасники Покидают тихонько памятники. Сотни тысяч (и все — похожие) Вдоль по лунной идут дорожке, И случайные прохожие Кувыркаются в «неотложке». И бьют барабаны!.. На часах замирает маятник, Стрелки рвутся бежать обратно: Одинокий шагает памятник, Повторённый тысячекратно. То он в бронзе, а то он в мраморе, То он с трубкой, а то без трубки, И за ним, как барашки на море, Чешут гипсовые обрубки. И бьют барабаны!.. Я открою окно, я высунусь, Дрожь пронзит, будто сто по Цельсию! Вижу: бронзовый генералиссимус Шутовскую ведёт процессию. Он выходит на место лобное — Гений всех времен и народов! — И, как в старое время доброе, Принимает парад уродов. И бьют барабаны!.. Прёт стеной мимо дома нашего Хлам, забытый в углу уборщицей, — Вот сапог громыхает маршево, Вот обломанный ус топорщится. Им пока — скрипеть да поругиваться, Да следы оставлять линючие, Но уверена даже пуговица, Что сгодится ещё при случае! И будут бить барабаны!.. Утро родины нашей розовое, Позывные летят, попискивая. Восвояси уходит бронзовый, Но лежат, притаившись, гипсовые. Пусть до времени покалечены, Но и в прахе хранят обличие. Им бы, гипсовым, человечины — Они вновь обретут величие! И будут бить барабаны!..

When the town celebrations fade away, The unrighteous and righteous in bed asleep, Those the state has put by for a rainy day Step down quietly from their pedestals. In their hundreds of thousands, identical, Along moonlit paths they go pacing, And the odd belated pedestrians Dive for shelter in first-aid stations. And drums are a-drumming! Clock pendulums freeze, stand motionless, The hands on their faces pull backwards, A uniform statue with soldier’s step Marches out, repeated in thousands. Some of marble, and some of brass made, Some are holding that famous pipe, Alabaster ones, shattered fragments, Itch to follow, like white-flecked tide. And drums are a-drumming! I lean out from my window, shivering With a fever, one hundred Celsius, As the brazen generalissimo Heads a pageant of fools and jesters. He climbs up on the hallowed podium, “Of all peoples and ages the genius”, And salutes a parade of monsters, As he did in those days so dear to us. And drums are a-drumming! By the wall of the block my flat’s in, Among heaps of abandoned dust and trash, You can make out a goose-stepping jackboot, And a broken-off piece of moustache. For the moment, they creak, drop a curse or two, Now, they only leave fading traces, But the last little button’s certain to Come in useful again on occasion. And the drums will be drumming! Dawn’s pink fingers suffuse our motherland, Station callsigns ping down the radio waves, The bronze statue returns to its place of rest, Alabaster ones stay in their hideaways. Maybe crippled, just temporarily, But their fragments retain the makings, Alabaster only needs humankind, And again it will rise to greatness! And the drums will be drumming!