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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

TABLE OF CONTENTS ITEM TRANSCRIPT

ENGLISH TRANSLATION 2 CITATION & RIGHTS 18

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

TRANSCRIPT ENGLISH TRANSLATION July 15, 1940

I think, I’ve had enough of Romain Rolland’s verbocity. I don't see the point of so many words and empty musings. Was it really so difficult to reveal Jacques’s views sooner. I’ve swallowed about 600 pages and was consumed by an endless stream of equivocations. He overdid it. He said it himself that the guy had no formal education, but then he goes on musing as only Romain Rolland can. The writer has put into his mouth what he himself thinks and not his protagonist. Not only could this guy not have thought this way, but Rolland himself couldn’t have in his youth. (what a discovery . . . I write all sorts of nonsense when I’m bored).

I do nothing except reading. When I get bored of reading, I just lounge around. Having nothing to do, I look out the window and check out a girl (I can't make out how old she is) in the opposite window. She glances back furtively.

July 16, 1940.

I wish it were 3pm already; I’d rather go to the library. An orchestra from Lahti sounds quietly (there is no antenna, so I receive just the input). I read from dawn till dusk.

20:24 I am just sitting here not knowing what else to do. They are broadcasting the opera "Troubadour" performed by the Milan Theater (!!!) and I am about to finish reading "Christophe". I would like to do both things, but I could never multitask. I am either completely absorbed in music and forget all else or read and hear not what is happening around. Perhaps it is better to read because as I listen to beautiful music I start musing and it is not good. It is better to immerse oneself in the book and experience another person’s life than reminisce about one’s own. I haven't heard these wonderful voices for a long time. I have often heard Italian masters being accused of singing without fervour, of having no feeling, while their voices are just a matter of training. In my opinion, it’s the other way around; it is our modern Russian singers in Lemeshev who don’t come even close . . .

It is impossible not to listen to such voices. Ah, to hell with the book. I'm just sitting and listening. I can't imagine being in the Milan theater and hearing and seeing these artists live. They apparently acted no worse than they sang.

July 19

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

I am terribly bored. On my own all the time. Too lazy to even get down to work. After entertainment, one is usually eager to work, but my days are filled with boredom, there is nothing interesting to do. I also lost my desire to construct. The heatwave is upon us, and there is nowhere to go. I am sick of reading the entire day. I'll go to the Letnii Sad.

July 21

I’ve spent almost half a day up on the roof. I had to set up the antenna myself, put up poles, etc. (the old one had been cut off). Tired as hell, but didn't manage to finish everything. I'll just have to do it tomorrow. At the moment, there is nothing to do, so I am bored. I spent the entire day on my feet, so not going out in the evening. The day has passed. I didn't have time for anything else.

July 24

What awful boredom. Forever alone. There is nowhere to go. All my friends (and there are only three of them: B, L, and V) have left. Anatoly, the swine, does not deign to visit. To hell with him! Usually we would take him down a peg, but now he has all the freedom to think of himself as a superior person. He is not going to stoop down to some former schoolmates (what the devil does he need them for?). He’s got a woman and hangs out with her. And to think how thick as thieves we used to be in school! It seemed that we would go on as close friends, but now I see what this penny friendship is worth. Admittedly, our lives after school have become different. Anatoly and Yurka are doing history and besides . . . I got distracted.

August 3, 1940

It’s noon. I am alone; everybody's left. Lyuba left at half past midnight today. Excerpts from "Swan Lake" (generally ballet music) is on the radio. When I got down to writing, it was a scene from the Fourth Act, and now some substandard mazurka. If only I had some tape, I would have recorded this wonderful music. So, I didn’t manage to do anything for the whole month; one must have materials. As luck would have it, the turning work (I hadn’t managed to finish the microphone parts in the workshop) is suspended and I cannot assemble the microphone. Plus, there is nowhere to get the tape, so it figures why I am not doing anything. No wonder one turns into a pessimist. Will I never . . .

Murderous melancholy. I want to howl like a wolf with hopelessness. All day I have been distracting myself with something, and now, in the evening, I don’t know what to do with myself. And I could do so much work. But . . . I’ve lost all

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN ambition. I am tormented by a living ghost, and inanimate nature ceases to interest me. How strong is this damn sex drive. Even reason is helpless. I fell in love and can’t do anything about it. One single thought haunts me like a thousand devils in a dream, on the street, in a tram, while talking to people. The only time I am free of it is when I am building something or studying. Then I forget and think not about this passion. Indeed, I have learnt the lesson of not tender passion but a hopeless one.

If Tatiana asked me this question now, I would have an answer for her. I have experienced the steel grip of this “tender” science.

Each entry begins with the words: "awful boredom", "boring", "I don't want to do anything" and the like. There is nothing worse than this monotony. Admittedly, I start writing just when I feel uncomfortable and I cannot do anything but sit and think about Tatiana and write. So, naturally, I start off with the word "boredom".

August 10

I’ve been fiddling with the modular core of the recorder all day. Alas, the metal files I bought could not take on transformer iron, and I had to stop the work just as I was about to finish. There is nothing to cut the T-slot with. I spent half a day working at the lathe in vain. The softer rubber makes the frequency spectrum recorded on the tape narrower. There is less noise, but melodic nuances become imperceptible either. I tried to rerecord using the old hard rubber and it’s incomparable. Perfect. If I keep on recording this way, when the signal level is much higher than the interference signal, i.e. the hiss of the needle, it will be perfect. As before, the sore point is where to procure some tape???! Tomorrow, I will have to finish the core and wind low-resistance modulation coils (at the moment, I have high-resistance ones. The circuit is grounded through 4MF from +A 6L6 lamp. This means that the output transformer is not connected to an external load and the load resistance is only the first winding of the transformer. So, the lamp works in some stupid mode, which makes distortions possible. If there is a low-resistance input of the recorder, then the output transformer will be given the required load. It will be possible to have more power from the amplifier and therefore record (Now I am limited by power. Above a certain level, distortions begin. The reasons for them I have not yet figured out for sure. Most likely, it happens because of the afore- mentioned. But it is possible that the recorder's armature begins to resonate, but this is unlikely. Or its inertia with very strong armature vibrations does not allow it to follow the electrical vibrations of the incoming signal. It is hardly possible, because my armature is clamped tightly, and besides, I used to have recordings made with a recorder that had a low-resistance input. Then I got much stronger vibrations of the armature. Now I don’t want to use the old modulation core (or rather, the pole piece made of transformer iron where the modulation coils are mounted). It is assembled from thick sheets of transformer iron that are not isolated from each other. Losses and therefore distortions are possible.

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

Finally, tomorrow I need to finish my antenna with an input that does not receive any signal, because another wire is parallel to it at a distance of 1 cm, isolated from it with a porcelain insulator and a length equal to the antenna input. Switching the input to this parallel wire in the receiver so that the EMF induced in the input and the parallel wire is in antiphase. We eliminate the possibility of EMF penetration into the receiver. Inasmuch as EMF from the interference mostly affects the input, which means the interference will be greatly reduced. Reception will affect only the horizontal and vertical parts (located above the level of the house) of the antenna. Let's see how this makeshift antenna turns out. It is possible that this is not my discovery and someone somewhere has long been using this method.

August 13

I came home feeling poorly. As always, as soon as I see someone else's love . . . ah, to hell with all these words. I starve for air . . . Address, address, that damn address. House number 46 and what about the apartment number? I don’t know it to this day. "The Law of Life" is a nice film, but it doesn't always end that way in real life. I'm going for a walk. I need a fresh perspective and something to do.

August 14

And there it is. I have "discovered" what has long been known. Today, looking through Radio magazine, I accidentally came across an article in which they describe almost verbatim my “discovery” of the techniques for eliminating interference. It's amazing that I should rake my brain and come to a long-drawn- out conclusion, instead of just flipping through the pages of the magazine and applying the idea.

I often lack patience to look for an answer to some question in the literature and I puzzle over some nonsense that is not worth a dime. Or I spend the whole day experimenting. Afterwards, I am convinced that I have wasted time. Admittedly, this gives me experience but not much else. It's good that I came across this article so quickly, otherwise I would have pondered over the calculation and would have come up with some nonsense (I've probably been making these stupid plans with an antenna for several months already).

Now I really do feel sick: my nose is running. I even woke myself up sneezing. I go around sneezing and crying all day. My nose has turned into a heating device. It’s quite a sight, considering that the old ghost haunts me now and my whole face is on fire. I don't know why, but I really want to confide in Lev . . .

Perhaps it's better that I will study in the afternoon. There will be no time to ponder.

There is nothing more to write. I am sitting alone at home. Mother left (father is in the hospital; Lyuba left).

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

What time is it now? If it’s not too late, I’ll go for a walk, and get Lev out of his den. We have agreed that in half an hour Lev would drop by. Fortunately, good music is on. I cannot survive without music.

I am constantly tired. There is nothing to record in my journal where I do not hide anything and do not bother about style. And what would happen if I had to talk to Tatiana herself, my tongue would just freeze.

I think it’s one of Tchaikovsky's waltzes. I’ve been sitting for ten minutes musing . . . What’s the point? No need to compare this nonsense to anything.

Ah, the music! It’s even worse than my mood. Sheer pessimism. I can just see the composer writing at the most bitter moment and crying over his score.

While going through the books, I came across an erased entry made in 1933. Have I really acquired this stupid feeling since then? It’s been seven years. What a gloom hangs all around!

August 22, 1940

Morning. A jazz concert is being broadcast. I am reinforced in my conviction that the Lakhtinsky repertoire is gradually being repeated by the Leningrad station. The typical Lakhtinsk tango "Jalousie" is now being played here as well.

It’s already the 23rd. In eight days, I’ll have to go back to university again. Although I am bored now, I have no desire to study either.

August 24, 1940

The recording has improved so much that it is now on a par with phonograph records and vice versa. There are no distortions, and I damn well did it! There is no buzzing noise at all. This is the only thing that brightens up my boring life. How I wish I could share it with T. My love for Tatiana and success in recording—the result of long experiments—could be considered an achievement to make me happy. It seems I have realized the latter, but the former is not up to me. It isn’t, because so much time has passed that she must have forgotten about my existence altogether.

I don't know why, but I am always very glad to hear the smallest details about her, especially when they show her in a positive light. I am overwhelmed by the desire to see her. I am destined to finish my studies without seeing this pretty being.

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

August 27, 1940

My only salvation is to do something, to make something. I have no tape and cannot record anything. So I'm stranded. Haven’t finished the microphone because I can’t figure out how to make a corrugated aluminum membrane. What a pity that I have to study in the afternoon. The whole day will be truncated, besides, I will not be able to meet with my friends.

August 29

Three days left until school starts. Some good music is transmitted from Lahti. Someone is playing some very famous music on a violin with an orchestra. Damn, I forgot the name!

Lahti has two advantages over our stations. It is small, has no local singers who, with their donkey cries, would clog the airways all day. Local "singers" perform very rarely, and nobody listens to them. Generally, they transmit classical music performed by the best artists (recorded). All those folk orchestras, along with screamers à la soprano and basses who are as good at singing as a drum (with its “wide” variety of sounds and tones).

How boring! Awfully boring! There is nothing to take my mind off gloomy thoughts. I don't know why, but I have such pain inside and am such a mess. What a mood! I just sit around breathless. Reading does not distract me, and I am fed up with making things. I am tired of scolding myself. The reasons are old. Old wounds usually ache incessantly.

September 1, 1940

It is a pity that Lahti now starts broadcasting music not at 1 am but at twenty past midnight.

My only dream is to find out the address and try to correspond. I'm going to die of boredom. I have a free morning and she does as well . . . How tempting . . . and no one would bother us. Frankly, for some reason, I consider myself below her, somehow unworthy. For a long time, I have been telling myself that I have to win her love, create something that deserves attention. Hence, the reason why I hesitate. What can I offer her? Nothing, except my vast suffering heart, longing and burning with love (What silly phrases!). What a mess! What does my heart have to do with it? I love her madly as before, but what I love her with I do not know.

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

One loves with his mind, not his heart. A heart has no conscious sensory organs.

I’ve just read the passage and was surprised with all the drivel I had written. Who cares what I love her with. Let it be some nerve cells or anything else, no matter.

This is sheer nonsense, I refuse to claim authorship. How could such claptrap have formed in my mind? I must make a box for all my devices. Soon I will get 300-400 meters of tape and will record the best excerpts. I should record the entire “Eugene Onegin”, the entire 6th Symphony by Tchaikovsky, preferably Swan Lake and other ballet music. Thomàs and others.

But the most precious one is Eugene Onegin, with the lovely Tatiana.

Its score is just amazing. It grabs, bewitches me.

Will I ever be able to record the voice of, do I dare say, my Tatiana? I'm afraid to even think whether this is possible. Probably not. This damn "no" stands in my way like an impregnable cliff. I wish I could record the best passages from “Eugene Onegin” and play them to her . . . Pushkin’s Tatiana suffered for one night and wrote a letter. I have been mucking about for years and can’t help it. Crazy love has hampered all my actions. If I loved her less, I would have acted more decisively (though now I am completely inactive) without fear of a bad outcome.

September 15, 1940

There will be a concert by Caruso, Gigli at 11:20, which must record.

September 16, 1940

Unfortunately, while recording, I kept pressing very hard on the tape so that it would not jump off the drum. The motor rotated unevenly, and, as a result, the recording produces flutter. Wasted 20m of tape, except for two scores that are perfectly recorded.

Without Tatiana, I will soon go crazy.

I don't want to live. Why should I want to without her? It is strange how narrow-minded one's actions can become! I am obsessed with one meaningless idea! What is the point of all these recordings? Zero. A massive zero. It ended just as it began. Nothing has changed. I am not even sure what I love—a dream or a living being. I haven’t seen her for so long and am so used to keeping everything in my head that I don’t

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN know how to translate it into action. I am ashamed to admit it but I might be in love with a person completely different from what I imagine. She's gone, but one can never tell. There are clever women who could only be admired from afar (God forbid, this should apply to Tatiana). I loved her for the clever and beautiful girl she is. But what is left now? After all, I don't know anything! It’s no good being a hypocrite. I will profess my love to her only to find out that I’ve been in love with the wrong person, that she is not at all the ideal I had been imagining for so many years. Love will fail and she can rightfully call me a scoundrel. I'm afraid to discover that she falls short of my ideal. I am so afraid of this that it seems better not to know at all and think of her as she used to be. In all fairness, I should love her whatever she has become, but it is impossible to tie oneself to a person who suddenly turns out to be not what you imagined. The thought that I might stop loving her after we meet, scares me and impedes any practical actions. But all of the above is not so important.

I don't have her address. Should I call her? What for? What will I say? I am not talkative as it is, especially with girls. Technology is my element; I am clueless outside of it. I am not totally ignorant when it comes to art and literature. But what is there to talk about with her. I can’t as well discuss science with her. As far as I am aware, girls don't like it. I do not know how to small talk and I don’t want to. But one can’t just come forward right away! This is the root of all the obstacles. I don't wish to come on strong. I still cannot forgive myself for the way I spoke to her: "Come on! Sit down!" How disgusting. And this is how I spoke to the person I love so dearly.

It's already half past one and I'm sitting here. It hurts me that I can’t do anything more, I am powerless. For this alone, she has every right not to love me. How can I call her and ask for reciprocity? I'd rather have forgotten her altogether.

September 20, 1940

My blood really runs cold when this music is playing. Tatiana is singing (an excerpt from the last Act of "Eugene Onegin" is being broadcast on the All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions station). "Yet happiness had been so possible," a vile phrase . . .

It's good to have a fantasy and indulge one’s imagination, but it's even better when the fantasy becomes reality.

September 22

Even on the only day off, I am bored and restless. I avoid all sorts of gatherings, I strive for loneliness, but once I achieve my goal, I again find nothing to do. Eh, it would be nice to get a book right now. I would

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN have lost myself in it. Actually, there is nothing to run away from, my life is barren. I feel like I mess things up and run away . . .

I wish I could graduate from college and go to work. I would spend an entire day at work. Would have something to do all day at work. There would be some kind of a goal. In the meantime, I lead a sort of impersonal existence. This insignificant life of mine with its pathological feeling, more precisely a sterile and insignificant one.

September 28

I have become so absent-minded; even left these notes on the table. Whoever wants can read them! Binka dropped by, was sitting right here next to this notebook and perhaps even held it in his hands.

20:54. Shaliapin's masterful performance was on. Such skill! What would happen if Shaliapin played Rigoletto, Galli-Curci was Gilda, and Caruso was the Duke. I imagine that the theater where this would be staged would just collapse: the whole city would come running to listen to these amazing artists.

A symphony concert from the works of Massenet and others are being broadcast right now. It’s almost 2am and I am still up. The music makes one sleepless. I’ll wait until 2am. The second shift is the most terrible aspect of studying at the institute. My whole day is truncated, and I don't have time to do anything. Damn! I wish I could graduate sooner. I am fed up with it. I can't go to the theatre or anywhere else. I come home no earlier than 11pm.

An excellent piano concerto by Rachmaninoff. Ah, I wish I had some tape!

I now have only two thoughts: Tatiana and sound recording, its theory and practice (what amazingly good music! I must record it . . . ). If not for the two obsessive thoughts (or rather the first and the accompanying second), I would happily study at the institute, because the material is very interesting despite the boring presentation by lecturers. The futility and fruitlessness of the first thought reduces my aspirations to sound recording, while other things are of no concern to me; moreover, I find them annoying. So, during lectures, I often find myself wanting to go home.

October 1, 1940

For several days now I have not been able to get my act together and make an adapter (fluid). It will be attached directly to the recorder and in 1/100 of a second I will be able to listen to the soundtrack while still recording. This will allow me directly to control the quality of recording, meaning that there will be no

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN wastage of tape. It is crucial when recording for an hour, because the quality of the recording can only be judged after the entire tape has been used up and then played back (there shouldn’t be any breaks because the groove will not be continuous and the adapter will jump from groove to groove, etc.) . . . The adapter is no bigger than a pencil stub, about 2.5 cm long.

October 5, 1940

Another wild law has been passed. How many students will be affected! Half of the first, second, and third years will probably have to leave the institute, due to their "increased wellbeing." Bastards! As the saying goes: what you sow is what you reap. Let's see what they reap.

October 8

I'm lucky. I came back from the institute and turned on the radio as usual. A good concert was broadcast simultaneously in Leningrad, Minsk and the All-Union Central Council of Trade Unions. But the best is in Leningrad. Sergei Migai, Ivan Kozlovsky, Ivan Zhadan Nadezhda Obukhova, Sergei Lemeshev, Shaliapin. What could be better! And now they are playing Mozart and Beethoven. The dance suite. Terrific thing!

October 13, 1940

God knows what’s happening! I've been feeling cold for a week now. I am clad in a jacket but it feels like I am outside. I would have gladly climbed onto a stove to warm up.

It has been a long time since I had been in such a foul mood as right now. The slush outside gets me down and I refuse to see anyone. I would so much like to go to work now and forget about everything, instead of sitting around and listening to such idiots as K . . . etc.

The heating engineer (damn him!) makes my fists itch. I would so much like to give him a piece of my mind and kick his backside so that he flies out of the institute with a bang. I would love to take a break from my studies for a year. I want to swear and turn everything upside down. The new regulation on tuition fees for students: one has only to study and everything will be alright, but that means that I’d have to give up sound recording. [??] studying disgusts me. I do not want grades to be my only goal in life. I must finish the recording—my only consolation. Therefore, the two devils in me are at loggerheads. There is nothing worse than this dichotomy! Sometimes I even think that it would be a relief to be drafted in the army now; I’d do the drill and think about nothing at all. It would be easier that way.

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

I am so wasted that life loses all meaning to me now. Perhaps that is how totally degraded people feel, when they stop seeing any value in their lives. Quite a dead end!

And the worst is passivity, aversion to everything. I can’t do anything right when I ask myself what all this is for. How many years would pass when I reread these lines? What will happen to me in thirty-forty years? Or will I be gone? I will envy my youth, which is worthless to me now. I am cold. But it’s even colder in the grave . . .

Enough!!!

October 21, 1940

I just listened to Elena Katulskaya. I don't know why, but I like her immensely. She has a familiar way of pronouncing words. And even her [??] voices are very likable. Especially now when I listen closely to her voice. How I would love to meet her. What is she like? Does this voice resemble that of Tatiana?

October 25, 1940

The bastards have really taken the cake. They won't go far. Things . . . (got distracted)

October 28, 1940

Finally, I made a microphone. I just need to make a couple of sockets for it and a cover on the membrane and everything will be in order. The quality is so far better than expected. A crystal microphone would be nice if I could experiment on it for longer. It probably has a big piezoelectric effect. But contact is broken all the time and it is sensitive to movement. So, the inconstancy and constant tuning have tired me. It’s all done, finally! And I conceived of it back in 1939, 1938 even, if not earlier (speaker with a permanent magnet).

Now all that remains is to make, or rather to finish, another adapter to allow for a simultaneous listening while recording (simultaneously with the help of two amplifiers), and the sound recording apparatus would finally be completed after many years of fuss. As a final touch, I’d need to take care of the boxes. This time couldn’t come sooner.

November 1, 1940

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Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

What seems so straightforward in principle is not so easy to accomplish. How much effort has gone into fixing the adapter directly onto the recorder. But it doesn't work. The fluid adapter that tolerates EMF from the modulation coils of the gearbox worked poorly. I decided to make a regular magnetoelectric one with an additional coil, which, giving guidance to the phase of the opposite sign (equal in magnitude to the EMF induced in the main coil), completely destroyed the voltage from mutual induction at the adapter output. But after several experiments, I was convinced that at least the value of the reciprocal [??] easy [??] but the phase is difficult. So, failure number twenty-three. Damn it, I'll die but I’ll manage to achieve simultaneous audio and recording! I'll also try to make a crystal adapter.

It would be great if I could get a piezoelectric adapter. But it costs 102 rubles (and there is nothing to it; in fact, it should be much cheaper than a magnetoelectric one). I would have enough patience for another 100 adapters, but this is not enough. Often looking around, I just give up. What’s the point of it all? In such cases, there should be some moral support. And I don't have it. Instead of resting, reading books, studying, I shut the world out, sit alone in my room and spend all my free time building, building, and building. This has been going on since the time I was able to hold my tools. It might seem easy to just give up, abandon all the experiments.

But even when I sometimes do not assemble anything (though this happens when work comes to a standstill) I feel restless. I'm used to developing stuff, and everything else is on the back burner.

Forever alone. How can any personal life progress in such an atmosphere. It also moves to the background. I wish I could make a crystal adapter! Then I would immediately start recording the voice; otherwise, I already have a microphone ready (the voice is transmitted clearly without distortions) but I have not tried to use it yet. I would like to have all the improvements in place and not waste extra tape. I hardly have any anyway. Having done all this before the holidays, I even had the audacity to invite several people to record their voices.

November 3, 1940

It’s a strange phenomenon: the more I enjoy something, the worse I feel afterwards.

Obukhova is singing (I think she is from Kiev [Kyiv]). I just came back from the cinema and am in shock. I felt restless at first. “This is my first time . . . in your house” got stuck in my head. I just can't be silent! If I don’t see Tatiana, I’d be worthless. I am going crazy. How long will I have my head stuck in the clouds! One can burn out this way. I haven’t seen her for two whole years! There are no words to express my desire to see her. One thought dominates my mind, and I am so distracted that even when I write I make grammar mistakes. What a hellish power love is!

Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

November 9, 1940

And you call this a holiday?

For two straight days I’ve been improving my design. I made a piezo-adapter 3x0.5x1 cm in size and fixed it directly on the recorder. After long experiments, I had to carefully shield the lead wires leading to it with a double iron spiral, so that it became armored. My hopes were justified, it works better than all my previous designs of electromagnetic adapters and it seems to me (though I did not expect it at all!) even better than factory-made piezo-adapters. In general, I have completely resolved this issue, not counting one little thing: I need to [??] wire from the amplifier. I can’t get my head around it just yet. Tried recording voices with a good microphone and the results are poor. The voice is unrecognizable: someone is speaking, but it’s unclear who. Perhaps it’s because I recorded it on an old dry tape (it is very difficult for the needle to reproduce the recording, hence the distortions). In addition, I’ve learnt that voice recording requires low tension (unlike music recording). Someday this will work out, but I am sick and tired of it now. It looks like I will never see her again. What terrible melancholy. I’ve wasted two days. Didn’t manage to do much today. One more day tomorrow and then back to school. Worst of all, there is nowhere to let off steam. I’ll just go to Vaska.

November 22, 1940

Or rather, already the 23rd, since it’s 2:30am. If I start reading, I can’t stop. In such cases, I stay awake until 2-2:30 am. For no apparent reason, my previous mood came over me again today. Such a nagging feeling that I don’t know what to do with myself. An insane desire to see my darling lovely Tatiana has overcome me. How dear this stranger is to me. For many, many days I’ve been living as if in a dream without noticing the passage of time. I would just go to lectures and that's it [??] And only today in the evening I felt good.

They are broadcasting a wonderful concert (Russian composers). First, there was "May Night", then Shaliapin sang "The Song of the Varangian Guest.” My only pleasure now is good music. I care not about anything else, all is lost . . .

Only when I walk home in the evening, I secretly wish to meet her. If only for a moment! But the poor thing probably studies and works (after all, her family is not well-off). How pathetic I am in my feelings. How disgusting it has become. My absent-mindedness has grown to idiotic proportions.

Enough.

Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

December 5, 1940

I have decided to sit down and write something. But there is nothing to write about. My senseless life. This is no life, but some kind of devilry. I am sitting alone at home, bored but unwilling to go anywhere. Even recording, my only pleasure, does not attract me: as socialism flourishes, prices go up wildly and my father’s salary is not enough, so I started to mess around in the morning. So, the whole day is wasted. I think that, if there was an order of monks or people were offered to fly somewhere, like the Moon, I would gladly join them.

December 18

I haven't written for a long time. There was nothing to report. Scary stuff. When I start reading diaries or excerpts from them, shivers run down my spine. I am transported to the time when this was written and step into that person’s shoes . . .

He is sitting at his table, holding a quill. He is tormented. The man once thought, wrote, and had no idea that in tens of years another would read his lines and sympathize with him. What terrible chill emanates from the past millennia. How many lives have disappeared. Only pitiful pieces of paper remained in their stead, just a reference. I simply cannot imagine that in tens of years, hundreds of years, someone would read my lines . . . What are you thinking about, are you young or old? I lived devil knows when, perhaps even my bones have already turned into dust. It would serve you better to go for a walk if time permits! I am right, aren’t I?

I don't know where it comes from, but I often imagine myself in other person’s shoes. I become him, his thoughts and deeds. That’s why I wrote the previous lines. I read about Mochalov and . . . ah, who cares . . .

I'm trying to look ahead . . . after all the exams, all these boring tests, I'll be free. A good time will come. But then, damn it, I know in advance that I will get bored. Sound recording will progress slowly.

It’s exactly 1:30 am, already the 19th, and I am still up. There's nowhere to rush tomorrow. I will study at home all day . . .

Foolishly, I began to read previous entries and have turned into a wreck. These entries are terrible. If someone saw them, they would die from laughter. The only way to prevent these records from accidentally falling into the hands of a stranger is to burn them. But, for some reason, I feel sorry for them. Even if 90% here is introspective, it’s still dear to me. Why is introspection considered a vice? Why can't you express yourself on paper? Let my stupid mind spill on paper! It’s not a coin jar. I am not going to burden others

Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN with my thoughts and feelings as many do. They think that if they shared something, others find it interesting. In my opinion, it usually provokes the opposite reaction.

The last page crowns the end.

The end. This is a bad word. It stands mercilessly and waits for its turn to stop a venture, cut off a life. Late hour comes into its own and drives me to sleep.

Some would say that all this is just illiterate scribble. And what will I say reading this in thirty years? Who are you, who will you become my unfortunate self?

December 23

I have a terrible toothache. To distract myself, I’ve decided to write a bit. I am just lucky like that. Until yesterday I was happily oblivious. The tooth didn’t hurt, and I had not a worry in the world . . . I had a root canal in the already aching tooth, and now I rush around the room like a madman. Damn it, I have a thundering headache. I can't even write.

December 27

I have finished my studies with the exception of one lecture. Started working on amplifiers.

January 1, 1941. 02:21

New Year's Eve was the same as the previous ones, i.e. meaningless. I hoped at least to listen to a good concert, but, as luck would have it, there was complete rubbish instead. Jazz is a collection of musical nonsense. Murderous mediocrity!

The only thing that stands out is Utiosov's jazz (for its musicality), but he is probably celebrating somewhere.

The desired number 24! Today I passed my last exam—the most boring heating engineering, the devil take it. I am now 100% free. I should go to the skating rink. I wish I could now meet her or even skate together . . . But this is probability pushing towards impossible, if not impossible already. Hell, I might meet someone’s wife.

Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

January 28, 1941

Crazy longing . . . to see Tatiana. This longing has consumed me whole. Tatiana, dear Tatiana, what has become of you? Where are you.

Semeon Kazakevich. Diary, 1940 - 1941

ID MISC004.047 PERMALINK http://n2t.net/ark:/86084/b4c53f46b

ITEM TYPE DIARY ORIGINAL LANGUAGE RUSSIAN

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